Title: Aftermath

Summary: Bobby and the Winchesters deal with the aftermath of their actions. Sequel to Intervention.

Warnings: Some language. More introspection than you can shake a stick at.

a/n: Firstly, huge apologies for the wait on this one. I honestly have no idea why it took so long to write. I have to admit the support for the first part was kind of overwhelming, so I'm a bit nervous about posting this in case it doesn't match up to what you were expecting.

Massive thanks to Sendintheclowns again for the beta, her help and encouragement, and for convincing me to stick with what I originally had in mind with this story rather than panicking and running wild. Thanks to Gigetgal9 too, as she was also on the receiving and of some of my more insane questions and insecurities, and never fails to rise to the challenge.

Oh, and for anyone that was happy to leave Intervention as a one-shot, feel free to ignore this.

Part Two

It's been almost three hours and Sam's yet to wake. Dean's body is beginning to ache in his hard wooden chair, the numerous knots and pains now making themselves known in the silence. He'd have dragged in one if the soft armchairs from the living room by now if he was convinced it would make it through the bedroom door.

And if that didn't involve taking his eyes off Sam.

Bobby's still hovering near the edge of the room as if afraid to get too close, but more afraid to leave completely, and Sam just sleeps on between them; as still and pale as death, and Dean knows they've done this before. He feels it so clearly it's like a cold stone in his stomach; an actual cloud in the room he's finding it hard to breathe through.

But there's a fundamental difference this time around. This time Dean isn't deluding himself with his belief Sam will wake. This time the flush of colour is steadily returning to his brother's cheeks. His heart is beating, and Dean can see the rise and fall of his chest, and gets caught in the trance of its rhythm.

It's too quiet in this room, but Dean can't bring himself to break it. There's nothing either of them can say that he wants to hear. He's already heard all the details Bobby knows, had a catalogue of every injury, and knows that for each one they can see there will be a dozen more so far over shadowed by the glaring flash of red that's kept Sam under for so long.

Dean's honestly not sure what's making him feel more ill: the head wound, the damage he's just inflicted on his little brother, or Bobby's contribution. And then there's the reason they did it to begin with.

And as long as Bobby remains lurking in the background, he can't escape it.

They've not discussed what they will do. Dean's not convinced they have a whole lot of options. They've reached some kind of silent stalemate, waiting on Sam, waiting on any sign he might give them about why he did this. Only when he's determined the cause will Dean allow his mind to contemplate what they do next. He's had his moments of confusion, his fears and his doubts, but…

"Is that what she told you? She told me it was because your car was so loud she was afraid it would wake the baby."

…until he's faced with concrete proof, he just can't believe it. And somehow his own wounds, Bobby's account, and the bullet hole in his brother's shoulder, do not add up to give him the proof he needs.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He's due more pain killers but the throbbing wound is settling down and he'd not sure if he needs them. He should need them. If the state of Sam is anything to go by Dean should not be alive right now, let alone sitting upright and contemplating the merits of going Ibuprophen free, so the fact that he's doing just that makes him feel sick to his stomach.

His knuckles are bruised. They're bruised, and they're bloody, and Dean's been in enough fights to know how they got that way. He understands his own body and is aware of his own strength well enough to know just what force he must have put behind each blow, and his sense of unease is only growing.

He's not ventured back out into the main room of the cabin but he can hear Bobby righting furniture and clearing away debris, brief snatches of domesticity when the tension in the room gets too much. He's been so intent on his vigil that he didn't hear the other man leave this time. The door is open and Dean knows Bobby's as alert to any noise in here as he is. But while he's trying to wait it out, every so often it gets too much.

Bobby needs to restore order out there, because in this room it's beyond him.

Dean hates the inactivity too, but he's feeling too sick to move.

He's glad that Bobby's taken it upon himself to clean their mess – he doesn't have the stomach for it – but he can trace the damage by the noise it takes the clear it. He hears the sweeping of china and sees it shatter. He can hear the spray of detergent and he knows the blood being wiped off the kitchen surfaces is not his own. Knows that like he knows it's blood and not coffee that Bobby is wiping. Like he knows what the sound of Sam's face connecting with that fake granite work surface is.

He knows these things. What he doesn't know is why.

… this isn't you. I don't want to hurt you.

His hands are twitching and he has to cross his arms across his chest to still them, clenching his fists like he once tried to clench them around his brother's neck. He's breathing deep and even now in order to keep the images at bay. He's been lost, sitting here in the dark, needing to know what happened, the actions his brain had missed. Suddenly he hopes he won't remember.

He's had head wounds before. He's had concussion before. They've left him confused, trying to piece together events to see how he got there, but usually the images he remembers make sense. Usually they help him piece together enough of the story to ease his mind.

That's not happening this time.

He remembers joking over breakfast with Sam. He remembers teasing his brother and stealing all the chocolate chips from his muffin.

He remembers the noise of a mahogany table leg bouncing off his brother's ribs, the thwack of his body hitting the floor.

What he doesn't remember is why. What he can't recall is the moment Sam turned. The look in his eyes that Bobby is so adamant he must have seen.

What he doesn't understand is at what point self defence dictated beating the crap out of Sam, while his brother rarely got in a decent blow.

And there's a truth there he just doesn't want to face.

Bobby's moving back into the room, and he sees the soup before he smells it, a steaming mug being held out to him with the instruction to 'eat'. But Dean can't unfold his hands to take it, because if they're not curled tight across his body he won't be able to pretend he doesn't see them shaking. Won't be able to…

Did you ever think this might be what's easier for Dean? Let him live out his days without having to worry about your sorry ass…

He gasps and does his best to keep in the whimper. Bobby's leaning over him to rest the mug on the table at his side, obviously hoping its aroma will tempt him. He pauses to take Dean in, eyes searching his face, not pulling back from Dean's personal space.

Dean can't look the other man in the eye. He can't trust his ability to push his chair back to give himself space without seeing the action through and bolting. Can't trust himself not to be sick where he sits. Bobby's as skilled at dissembling as he is, and Dean has no idea what the other man is thinking. How much he suspects beyond his own disquiet that Dean managed to walk away so comparatively lightly.

The other man's eyes are like a physical heat on his body, and he can't prevent the sigh of relief when Bobby moves away and resumes his post at the other side of the room. His chair is by the door, and Dean knows that while his posture gives the impression of privacy, Bobby's motives are anything but. Nothing in this room will escape him.

The exit is blocked, and Dean's honestly not sure who he's trying to keep in.

Not sure which of them he should be keeping in.

He knows he should ask. Should tell Bobby the memories the older hunter has shared do not tally with his own. Whatever happened here it was violent, and Bobby needs to be informed, needs to know what these hands have done. But the words get stuck in his throat. It's hard enough to squeeze air in between the knot of fear and guilt and shame, so words don't stand a chance.

He can try and pretend he doesn't trust his own recollections, but seeing them reflected back at him in Bobby's eyes – there could be no escaping it then.

Bobby shot Sam and tied him up for what he thought Sam had done. What will he do to Dean when he figures it out?

Maybe he needs to be contained. Maybe it would be for their own good. But Dean doesn't think he could stand, let alone hurt anyone. He can't cope with what he's already done, so resuming his mission is the last thing on his mind.

And Bobby might take him away from Sam.

He doesn't believe he's still a threat, but Bobby hasn't survived as long as he has by taking unnecessary chances. If he keeps quiet he can stay with Sam, and watching the deep in and out of Sam's breath is the only thing keeping him sane right now.

He can hear Bobby shift behind him and make a slight warning growl, but no other words come. The other man's reaction is the first indication Dean has that he's reached out and is now holding Sam's bound hands between his own. Perhaps if he grips onto them they will steady him.

It's clear Bobby doesn't like him getting too close but he has the sense not to say it, and if Sam was going to wake up swinging he would not have been unconscious for this long.

Dean's lost himself in a kind of trance by the time Sam stirs. There's the barest of movements and he's leaning in to catch them. His whispers aren't actual words but he's sure Sam will understand their meaning, but before he can get too close there's a steadying hand on his shoulder and he's being pushed firmly back in his seat.

Bobby doesn't say anything and Dean is quickly released, but the presence is still there behind him. Not close enough to be intrusive, but still within easy reach.

Dean knows it's supposed to be comforting, but it's hard to take it as that when he knows why Bobby's here. When he knows the reason Bobby is staying so close is because he doesn't trust Dean's ability to be objective. His firm presence screams security, and Dean takes a moment to hold onto that. Because he might not be sure which of them Bobby is really in here to protect, but he trusts the other man to get it done if protection is needed.

Sam's slow to open his eyes and Dean's loathed to encourage him, too afraid of what he might see in them when Sam does. But his hand closes around Sam's, ignoring the faint click of his cuffs, trying to offer encouragement that way.

One second Sam's eyes are darting sleepily, trying to take in the room. Then they lock on his, and Dean aches.

Sam's whole demeanour shifts in an instant, and Dean can see that he's torn. His body's immediate reaction is to jerk away, and there's a hitch to his breathing that is obviously fear. But when his brain catches up and he realises he isn't being threatened his hands tighten on Dean's wrist convulsively, pulling Dean towards the bed with all the little strength that he has.

And his eyes are huge.

"Hey, don't try and talk"

Sam's voice is breathy and raw, and Dean can see the tears it costs him, but Sam is undeterred.

"Shhh, I can't hear you dude. Save your breath." And he can't help the laugh that escapes him, because if Sam's tears or his wondrous expression, or the fact that he's now pawing at Dean's sleeve, pulling Dean towards him, are anything to go by, Dean knows exactly what he's trying to say.

Sam's fingers have closed around the front of Dean's shirt. He's using Dean's own strength to lever himself upwards into more of a sitting position, and Dean grimaces with him. He's supporting Sam by his elbows now because Sam's bound hands are exploring his face, his eyes questioning. Fingers hover close to the wound near Dean's temple, and he can just make out the word "sorry", breathed out like a sigh, before firm hands are separating them.

Dean's pushed back into his seat. Sam's muscles are straining and his body wants nothing more than to sink into the bed, but Sam's refusing to let go. Bobby has to grab hold of his hands and forcibly remove him from Dean's clothing, and Dean feels the loss, sees the look of confusion and panic on Sam's face as he's manhandled away.

Dean isn't thrilled by the separation either, but he understands Bobby enough to know that for now it's safer not to fight him. But Sam doesn't seem to have worked out yet that it's Bobby he's scrabbling against. He just knows there's something trying to keep him from Dean, and he has to get past it to reach his brother.

"Sam, calm down." He's maintaining eye contact as much as he can over Bobby's shoulder and he knows that Sam can hear him, even if he doesn't fully grasp what's going on. "It's okay. I'm staying right here."

Bobby's trying to be gentle but any contact or movement at all has to be painful, and there's blood at Sam's shoulder again, and something within Dean snaps.

"SAMMY."

Sam wilts into the bed as though someone's hit his off button, but he's still clinging to consciousness.

Sam's still now. Dean becomes aware Bobby is speaking at the same time as Sam does, but he's concentrating on Sam's look of dawning recognition rather than the older hunter's words. They seem to have calmed Sam at any rate and he's nodding meekly, eyes flicking between the two of them fearfully, and Dean can no longer read what he's thinking.

The initial jolt of adrenaline on waking has obviously faded now, and Sam's brow crinkles in pain. He's listening to Bobby, who's gently checking his shoulder and issuing admonishments when he tries to move, but his eyes never leave Dean's form.

Bobby's clicking his fingers in Sam's face and asking him to focus, and Sam's nodding again, wincing gingerly at the move, watching Bobby's face, taking in the hands that are softly probing him, and the injuries beneath, with uncertainty. Bobby's gentle but firm. He's brisk, but Dean can't tell if that's because he's distrustful or because he's Bobby. But he's asking Sam about the pain and if he's dizzy, if he can focus and whether he can breathe – all the things Dean would be asking if he had the strength to move.

Bobby's questions are limited to yes and no answers because Sam still has no voice. He will be unable to answer the question Bobby most wants to ask, but as far as Dean is concerned Sam doesn't need words, just the way his eyes dart back to seek out his own, and the look of relief he's flashed when Sam finds him, to get all the answer he needs.

He remembers kneeling on Sam's chest while he choked the life out of him, and he can see it in Sam's eyes that his brother remembers that too. Can feel it in the way Sam's body initially flinched from his touch. In the fact he cannot hold Sam's gaze for more than a few seconds before his brother glances away.

But Sam's eyes keep coming back, are still seeking him out despite their uncertainty. Despite how desperately his body wants them to close. And Dean vows right there that he will earn that. Will make himself worthy of that trust. He has no way of knowing where they'd be now if Bobby hadn't shown. If he'd called the other man back; not tried to ignore his brief moment of uncertainty. If he'd turned to Sam for the assurance he sought.

It's possible he may never know.

He can't go back, and he can't undo it. Where they go from here is the only thing that matters.

And one thing he knows for certain is the thing that did this will suffer. He has a target for all that pent up frustration and rage, and he will come down on this entity will the full force of it. And it's that knowledge, that certainty, that sense of purpose that will see him through this.

Bobby's finished his cursory exam and reassured himself that Sam's wounds are healing, but Dean knows his brother well enough to know that Bobby has not addressed the one part that Sam wants an explanation for.

With a faint jingling Sam raised his wrists up for Bobby's inspection, eyes darting between the cuffs, Dean's face, and Bobby's eyes, obviously unsure. But his request couldn't be clearer.

"You up to telling me what happened?" Bobby asks.

"W…?" His voice cracks on the first syllable and his body is wracked with coughing. Dean can tell by the worried expression on his brother's face that while Sam remembers what happened to put him here, he is coming up with nothing to explain the reason his hands are bound, or the hole in his shoulder he had been eyeing with trepidation during Bobby's exam.

At the sight of Sam's confusion and his pained coughing something within Dean snaps. He's played along with Bobby's mistrust thus far, been kept silent by his own guilt and fear, but he needs to put an end to that now. He'd thought things would become clearer once Sam woke, but he realises now that Sam will not easily be able to defend his actions when he has no idea what he's being accused of. No idea why he's the one in chains. The one that got shot.

If he'd had any doubts about whether or not the entity was still influencing him, Sam's struggle for breath erases them. Because seeing that hurts. Seeing that makes his fists clench and he's overcome once again by the desire to hurt something. But the desire isn't founded in hate or rage or chaos. Dean doesn't think he could feel this protective towards something he was still intending to kill.

He's stayed away so far because it seemed the right thing to do. But he can't sit still and listen to that.

"Here. Take this." He pushes Bobby firmly aside and perches on the edge of Sam's bed. As he reaches over to help Sam sit up, his brother flinches in confusion. Dean tries to keep his voice soothing and calm, to explain that he's going to help Sam sit up, see if it will ease his breathing. To help him drink because while swallowing might be agony a little bit of moisture might just sooth the burn.

Sam's eyes are following him and Dean can tell that he wants to comply, but he still tenses away when Dean makes contact.

Sitting him upright is harder than it should be. The coughing has almost stopped, but with his hands bound Sam can offer no help; is unable to support any of his own weight. He is completely within Dean's power as he is, unable to defend himself and without the strength to back away.

Dean had been trying to stave off the moment when he had to confront his own guilt. It had not occurred to him that keeping his silence would mean Sam would wake bound and confused and completely at his mercy.

He wasn't really paying too much attention to what he was saying, concentrating instead on the soothing intonation of his voice, on keeping his movements slow and gentle. But Sam's still again and Dean becomes aware that between the litany of "Shhhh" and "breathe" and "safe" he's throwing in things like "it's gone", "it's me now" and "I'm sorry."

He can feel Bobby stiffen at the foot of the bed, but he's not prepared to take his eyes off Sam long enough to look at him. He's not been able to read what the other man is thinking the whole time he's been in here, so he's really not sure how Bobby will take this new revelation.

Maybe he already knew.

Dean pushes down the shameful feeling of exposure and concentrates on Sam, who's offering him a watery smile. Sam's breath is still raspy and hoarse against Dean's ear as he guides his brother back down in the bed, but it seems to have levelled out now Sam has been reassured he's not going to be re-attacked.

"Bobby, come on." He fingers the chains gently. It hurts him to see them as much as it hurts Sam to have them there. Dean turns at last, and he knows that Bobby is pinned now in their double gaze – one tired and hopeful, his own remorseful. And he suddenly has to fight the urge to smile. Bobby's shifting in that uncomfortable way he always has when they've tried to sway him in this way. Only it's not extra marshmallows for their hot chocolate or a blind eye when their sparring degenerates into a snowball fight that they're asking of him now. It's blind trust, and a complete disregard for everything he's witnessed and everything he'd previously been told.

And Dean knows without words that he isn't going to do it. Dean had shared his concerns, and he doesn't get to change his story now.

"He hit you." Bobby growls, "I know what I saw." He states firmly, "I know." And Dean knows that this time it isn't him that the other man is trying to convince. Because if he were Bobby, he wouldn't want to believe it either.

"Bobby…"

"No. They stay on until I'm sure." He turns and storms from the room before Dean can say any more, and Dean can hear the clunking of draws and pans before the hum of the radio drowns them out, and he can picture Bobby taking out his frustration on the washing up.

He goes to speak but Sam just shakes his head and lowers his bound hands back to his stomach, and Dean's suddenly not sure what he'd been intending to say. What he can say.

But Bobby's right about one thing, and Dean's throbbing head is proof of it. Dean gave Sam his life back; he has to try and take comfort in the knowledge Sam would fight to keep it.

Sam shifts slightly and grimaces, but before Dean can make it up to help him his brother has stilled, head turned away from him. He rests a hand on Sam's unwounded shoulder, suddenly desperate to make contact with him, to try and work out what he's thinking. But Sam's only reaction is to close his eyes.

Dean opens his mouth, but before the words can make it out Sam's soft "Don't" hits him, stretched out and faint as an exhale, and it stops him in his tracks.

And Dean feels suddenly so alone. Abandoned on either side. He doesn't know how to make it right, but he knows he'd do anything just to have Sam look at him again.

But Sam's sleeping again now, too exhausted to keep a wary eye on his renegade brother, or to even enquire what's going on. Dean hopes he doesn't know the reason he's lying there weak from blood loss and trauma. That it's not because of any move Dean made while under supernatural influence, but because of his conscious action. Because of his cowardice. Because he had been so reluctant to acknowledge his spur of the moment confession, had relied on the fact Bobby would have been able to tell from that one simple phone call what Dean had briefly forgot. That Sam was his little brother; that he was constantly thrust in impossible situations; and that he did the best he could.

He doesn't know what to say to be convincing. He doesn't know what will make Bobby accept that Dean had been the one under this thing's thrall. He doesn't know how to explain away the hate the other man had seen in Sam's eyes, and he has no words to describe the pain of knowing it had been there. That it had been strong enough to drive someone who knew and trusted Sam to pull the trigger.

He could try to recount the actions behind every bruise; tell Bobby just what kind of fight he remembers Sam giving and how well that had worked out for him. In intimate detail. But these are facts that Bobby would expect Dean to know, regardless. Because he thinks it really was Dean that had done that.

He thinks that Dean could do that.

He could try and explain the pleasure this thing took in every blow, but he doesn't think he could gag the words out.

Sam is sleeping now; he's no-longer unconscious, and he's obviously restless. There's a crease of pain at his brow and his breathing is deep but uneven. They'd been so busy trying to assign blame and find some kind of explanation for the night's evens, that both Dean and Bobby coaxed Sam to drink to see if it would ease his throat enough to speak, but neither of them thought to lace his water with anything for the pain.

Sam's got a hole in his shoulder and his entire body is sore. His body might be exhausted but he will not be able to sleep for long. Dean will be here when Sam wakes because he doesn't know anything else, but he doesn't know if Sam will want to see him. Unable to move or ask him to leave, Sam has escaped him the only way he knows how. But it's not going to take, and they will be thrust back into each other's company soon enough. Dean needs to have figured out a way to proceed before then, because he can't put any more weight on Sam than he already has.

He's still trying to puzzle it out when Bobby re-enters the room. The older man's expression is hard and he's avoiding Dean's eye. He approaches the other side of Sam's bed in absolute silence and stares as though committing every detail to memory. As though he held the ability to change things in the power of his gaze.

He has the power to do something, and Sam stirs as though aware of the scrutiny. His breath quickens, eyes flicking between Bobby and Dean as though trying to gauge which is his ally.

Bobby reaches for him and both Winchesters flinch, Sam in an effort to get away, and Dean preparing to fling the other man across the room if necessary. He's grabbed hold of Bobby's reaching arm before it can make contact, and Bobby is looking at him now, stilling immediately with his other hand held up in a sign of surrender.

Sam's eyes are on Dean's white clenching knuckles. When he meets Dean's gaze his lip is twitching despite the pain lining his features, and Dean's heart is suddenly lighter.

Bobby shifts, and when Dean turns his eyes back in the standing man's direction, Bobby is flashing a key in his free hand. Dean nods and releases him, giving Sam a curious glance at the sigh of relief that escapes him as Dean steps back from the bed.

"There's been another murder. In town."

Bobby's going for conversational but hitting 'moody teenager trying to explain himself' instead. Dean should know. He's had enough experience with that tone. "An old woman was found beaten to death in her home."

"Bobby?" He's missing something.

"Her nurse is missing. His clothes and belongings are still in his room, but this guy is just gone."

"And..?"

"And you fill the gap in the pattern. Between Hampton and his victims, and now this. According to the radio report, this woman never left her house, and was barely without her live in nurse. Now she's dead and he's gone. So, either this thing took a couple of days off to take in the sights, or…"

"Or we were supposed to be nine and ten." Dean finishes for him.

"Whatever happened here… whoever was…" Bobby sighs, still avoiding both their eyes, "It's not here now. It's long gone now. It probably knew you were on to it. Made one last jump so it could skip town with this Stratton guy."

"He's got a head start. You think we'll find him?" The idea of not doing so, not getting some kind of closure, is almost too much to hear.

"You bet your ass we'll find him." Bobby promises firmly, but he knows as well as Dean that they have no idea where to look. And one look as the form between them, struggling to hold onto consciousness long enough to follow their conversation, and Dean knows they will not be leaving here any time soon.

-0-

Bobby finds Sam on the veranda.

He's searched the cabin twice by then, fighting down the rising sense of panic, marvelling that something as simple and familiar as an empty room can cause his heart rate to rise in this way.

He's down the porch stairs and striding across the grass before a soft voice halts him.

"I'm down here."

He turns and makes it half way back up the stairs before the younger man comes into view, and he chastises himself for not having noticed him there on the way past. This isn't the first time he's been on the receiving end of Sam's ability to make himself smaller than people might expect.

Sam's sitting on the wooden decking, leaning against the cabin behind him; one arm curled protectively to his chest and the other around his right knee, which is raised like a shield in front of him. His left leg is stretched out before him, joints still swollen, and the bruises on his face stand out clearly in the waning light.

Bobby has no idea how he got down there, and even less how he expects to get back up again.

He schools his features not to betray the pang at the sight of him; the panic that had been so barely concealed. He rests his back against the railing some way to Sam's side, enough distance between them that Bobby could have been approaching a skittish animal.

But Sam's not the one that can bolt.

"What makes you think it was you I was out here for?" he asks, aiming for casual. He's been trying not to crowd the other man, weigh Sam down with the burden of his own guilt, but he has a feeling he's not been completely successful.

"You had that 'Oh God, where'd he go now' vibe workin' for ya," Sam admits. He hasn't turned, eyes still scanning the horizon.

"Wha..?"

"I have seen it before." Sam's lips twitch in a rueful smile, and Bobby doesn't doubt that he has. Doesn't doubt that it's a key feature of his brother's body language, and part of the set he's recently been adopting himself.

"You meant to be out here?" He asks instead. The sun's strength is fading, and while Sam might have found the energy from somewhere to make it out here, it didn't stretch to finding sleeves.

"Just looking for some quiet."

It isn't a reproach or a hint for him to leave, just the truth, and Bobby marvels that Sam managed to pull that off.

"Dean know you're out here?"

"Isn't that the same question?"

They both know the answer is no and Sam scowls, brow puckered into something close to confusion. Bobby hadn't meant it as a reprimand, but he knows that's how it must have sounded.

He's trying not to bog them down in his own guilt, but now he's caused Sam more of his own. Sam's been cooped up in one room for days. He should be able to step out for air without feeling as though he's being pursued. Or that he's somehow ungrateful for having needed it.

But Bobby knows that if finding Sam's bed empty worried him this much, he doesn't want Dean to have to experience it. Not when he's finally been able to convince the other man to stand down and get some rest.

"He's sleeping," Sam whispers, and there's something more than justification, more than guilt there. A sadness and a relief. A sadness that there is relief. His eyes have slipped closed - Sam's energy levels are still way below the norm - but as still as he is Bobby knows he isn't sleeping. It's probably the only time Sam's been alone since he woke, but Bobby doesn't get the sense that he's intruding. He doesn't think it's his presence Sam came out here to escape.

He wonders what he's done to deserve that. Dean's barely left his brother's side for three days, but he's barely been there either. Afraid that Sam might really see him if he is. See what he'd done.

But Sam knows exactly what they've done. He can still feel it, and the pinched expression on his face as he shifts position against the wall makes it impossible to ignore.

Three cracked ribs, a swollen knee, one sprained wrist and bruises that cover 90 per cent of his body. Bobby's seen the accounts of the other victim's conditions before they died, and he knows that Sam got off lightly.

Until Bobby shot him.

But the injuries will all heal. With time and patience Sam's body will remember this only as a hunt gone wrong – one of the many they will have, and one he was lucky to walk away from.

Bobby doubts his mind will bounce back as quickly.

He's having a hard time dealing with it himself.

Dean had rung him, sown the seeds of doubt. But it was Bobby that has allowed them to grow. Dean would have been more than happy with a nod and a dismissal and a 'keep an eye out in future'. That was supposed to be his response, he knows that now. Getting in a car and storming across the country to check it out for himself was the last thing Dean had wanted. Because any indication that he was taking Dean's fears seriously only left Dean open to taking them seriously himself.

And he had.

He had woken tired and confused, and Bobby had confirmed for him his worst nightmare. Without the clear recollections he needed to dispute the issue, Dean had believed every word Bobby had said. He'd tried not to. He'd argued, and he's been willing to risk the fall out… but he'd believed.

And Sam knew it.

It was Bobby that has done that. That had turned vague unease into a certainty. That had caused Dean to contemplate the action that needed to be taken from here.

And that wasn't the only thing he'd convinced Dean of.

He'd stressed the rage and hate he'd seen in the younger Winchester's eyes. Bobby had clung to that. He'd needed it. Not only was it justification for what he'd done – for shooting his friend's youngest son – but it had helped him to settle Dean's actions more comfortably in his own mind. It had helped him to push down his unease over the obvious discrepancy in their injuries. Why Dean had needed to use the force he had.

He'd focused on that look, because in truth it had chilled him. It had allowed the rumours and suspicion to suddenly not seem so absurd.

For Bobby, seeing that look on a face he could still remember following Dean around the salvage yard with something akin to hero worship, had been the thing that had clued him in to the fact something was seriously wrong.

For Dean, that Sam could look at him like that was no less than he deserved.

If Dean had heard some of the phone calls that Bobby had had to listen to, heard the fear, the desperation and the determination first hand… If Dean could truly see what his deal had done to Sam, there would be no way he could doubt his brother's intentions.

Sam could be moody and he could hold a grudge. Dean could annoy the crap out of him and they could fight like each slight was the end of the world – they were siblings, and not only that, they spent almost 24 hours a day in each other's company. But as mad as he might get, Sam could never truly hate his brother. Bobby wanted to bang Dean's head against a brick wall, hard, for ever fearing he could. For belittling the lines of tension and exhaustion Sam had carried with him since Wyoming.

Dean's low self esteem didn't just do himself a disservice, but Sam too.

But the fact that Sam felt uncomfortable just being around Dean had done little to dissuade him of that notion. And there was little Bobby could do to rectify the situation except try and keep the lines of communication open.

It didn't help matters that he couldn't seem to feel comfortable around Sam either.

And Sam had been worried about him. Bobby had known his awkward and out of the blue phone call would have set Sam's mind racing, but he'd feared that the other man would have sensed the purpose and become suspicious, perhaps hurt.

He had not considered that Sam might have thought it odd, and then been worried. It had been a long time since he'd needed such thoughts.

And Bobby had repaid that kindness with a bullet.

But it didn't do to dwell on that now. Bobby was nothing if not a practical man, and all the guilt and all the ill feeling in the world couldn't undo what had been done. He didn't believe in guilt or self pity. He believed in practical solutions. In moving forwards. In getting the job done.

And this job had become way too personal. He just wanted to see it finished. He hunted down and destroyed evil, that's what he did. But he had not relished making a kill as much as he did the prospect of this one. Not for a long time.

Hearing this thing had skipped town was a blow he had not expected to feel so acutely. He'd removed the bonds from Sam's wrists, then spent the next couple of hours fighting down the urge to jump straight back into his car and hunt this thing down. Really make it pay.

But as long as one Winchester had a concussion and the other was only partially conscious, there was no way he was able to leave.

He needed to finish this. And he only had one real witness. Someone who could give him a two day researching head start.

He'd come close to incurring Dean's wrath with his impatience to make Sam speak.

He'd waited until Sam woke naturally from his drug induced slumber. But while Dean's priority had been to ply Sam with fluids, soup, and painkillers - to go out of his way to ensure that he was comfortable and didn't have to talk - Bobby had needed answers. Dean might not have been ready to confront the issue, but Sam at least had understood that.

Bobby had put a pen in his un-sprained grasp, given him a pad, and told him to write.

Sam had been businesslike and brief, anticipating the questions and details Bobby would need like no witness he'd ever encountered. And after the turmoil of the last 24 hours he'd needed that. An opportunity to be unemotional. Straight to the point. Dean had taken him aside afterwards and chewed him out for being harsh, but Bobby knew that detached was the only way he would be able to do it.

And he wasn't sure if Sam could have done it any other way. They both knew they would not be able to move forward as long as the source of their disquiet was still out there.

Sam's exhaustion and Dean's death-like glare had caused him to call the interview to a halt much sooner than he'd have liked, but at least he had a place to start.

And practically every waking moment since then had been dedicated to hunting this thing down. Scouring over Sam's notes, the witness reports, his and Dean's own experiences. It was the only way he knew how to keep the anger and the guilt at bay. To use it. To try and fix what he could. Make amends. Pursue this with the fervour that Sam could not.

But until he had a definite lead he did not feel comfortable leaving the brothers alone.

"At the risk of freaking you out… thank you."

He's been lost in his own thought for so long he's forgotten where he is. He's forgotten who's sharing the veranda with him, using the fresh air and open space to pursue thoughts of his own.

"What?"

Sam is looking pensive, and the older man can tell straight off the bat that he isn't going to like whatever he's going to say. Sam looks as though he's trying to swallow down something sour, so Bobby's not convinced the other man likes it that much either.

But as usual, that doesn't deter him.

"This is gonna sound weird, but…" he shrugs and sighs, staring off into the distance.

"But what?" He doesn't know if he's supposed to ask; if Sam wants prompting or wants to forget he ever attempted to say anything at all. He's not sure on Winchester etiquette in these matters – the line they walked between conversations they would rather avoid, and ones they should have.

Something about Sam's puzzles demeanour leads Bobby to think this is one of the latter. He's tempted to head inside to drag Dean out to hear it, but he can't help but feel Sam's brought this up out here in the quiet, with no brother in tow, for a reason.

"You didn't hesitate. Not really. And I just… Dean could never do that, but you…"

"Shot you!"

"Yeah…" he's looking at Bobby for the fist time, offering a pained smile.

"And you're saying thank you?"

Wow. There's a whole point to this conversation he's just not getting.

"I guess… I don't know. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me at the moment..." Bobby snorts incredulously, glad that he's not the only one the logic of this is beyond. "But it still means something." Sam finishes firmly, scowling as though annoyed at the thought of being made fun of.

"It should mean something all right," Bobby asserts.

"You did what you had to do…"

"I was wrong."

"…to protect him. He won't protect himself, and I…" again with the shrugging and the staring off into the distance. "We both know that one day he's probably gonna need to."

"It's not gonna happen."

Sam laughs, but there's no warmth to the sound. "I think you both forfeited the right to use that line, don't you?"

"Sam…"

"No, don't. Just…" Sam raises his good arm to ward off Bobby's words; the reassurance he wants to believe but has no right to give. "You had the sense to put him first, and I'm grateful for that. So what I'm saying is don't… I'm not… mad at you."

Sam says the word 'mad' as though testing it for meaning and Bobby knows it's not the one he wanted to use, he just can't think of one better. "But the rest of it… the…" Sam trails off again and lets his hand drop at the end of some vague gesture that Bobby takes to include the rest of their misunderstanding. The part where he'd discussed Sam's cosmic wellbeing with Dean. Taken Dean's fears over his own knowledge and instincts.

Viewed Sam's attempts to save his brother as a threat.

"I'm kinda still processing that part."

"Me, too."

To his surprise Sam smiles and nods, as thought Bobby has got the answer right when he's not entirely sure what the question had been. He doesn't quite know what to do with what he's just been told. What file to store it away under.

He can't say there isn't some relief in the prospect Sam might not hate him. Sam's accepted Bobby's help, and he appears grateful that Bobby is looking into their little problem. But all of their interactions so far, everything since Sam's teasing of Dean's culinary expertise, have been formal. All pleases and thank you's and sticking to the point, and Bobby doesn't want that. He never thought he'd regret the fact he's been around Winchesters for three days, and not once have they teamed up to deliberately piss him off.

Between them, he and Dean have given Sam even more reason to doubt himself. More reason to worry. He's never discussed it with Sam directly, but Bobby could see the cloud of fear and anxiety he had lived through this past year. He knows the effort it took the younger man just to keep going, and how much of that determination was down to Dean's unquestioning presence. He just hopes they haven't permanently removed an integral part of the younger Winchester's support system. The foundations keeping him standing.

Bobby hadn't realised the extent to which Sam's fears are still hanging over him. How much of a weigh his supposed destiny is. He's been vision free since the demon died; as far as they're aware his powers are gone. He should have no more reason to worry about becoming something he's not.

At least, not until he and Dean put the idea back in Sam's head.

Sam's been a little more gung-ho than was his norm, but they're in the middle of a war. That's not necessarily a bad thing. Yes, he killed those demons and their hosts without hesitation, but they were powerful and on the loose, and there hadn't been a whole lot of other options. Bobby had pulled the trigger on Ruby simply because she was a demon and she was there, so Sam still had a long way to go before they needed to worry to the extent they had.

"Shit."

Sam breaks through his reverie once again. The injured man is struggling to rise, and Bobby reaches over and places a hand on his shoulder to still him, frown questioning. He'd been right to wonder how exactly Sam had been intending to stand.

Sam doesn't say anything, but his eyes flit to the doorway. He's not as in tune so it takes him a moment, but the sound of movement from inside alerts Bobby to what Sam is worrying about.

"Stay here, I'll head him off," he says, noting Sam's relief at this offer.

Bobby heads inside and catches Dean on the threshold to Sam's room, preparing himself to enter.

"He's outside," He tells him, before Dean can waste his time opening the door.

"What?"

"He's just on the deck, getting some air."

Dean's face curls into an accusatory frown, and he pushes past Bobby with a purposeful stride. "It drops cold in the evenings and he's still too stiff to put on a jacket, you know that."

Bobby did know that actually; he'd had a similar thought himself. But he'd known that Sam knew that too, and had obviously factored it in when making his decision to venture out regardless. Sam had not had a lot of say in what was going on around him of late, so Bobby had decided to give him the option to be cold if he wanted to be. He was a grown man after all.

Apparently Dean was not willing to make the same concession.

With a sigh he lets Dean go, heading back over to Sam's purloined computer, now the focal point of his research. He's not usually an internet man; there's something satisfying about the scent and feel of a text that a computer just can't replicate. But he doesn't exactly travel with his whole library in the trunk of his car, and he's prepared to admit the machine allows him to extend his search cross country with ease.

Not that he doesn't have a network of eyes on the ground too, which he'd much rather rely on. He's called in a few favours on this one; such is his desperation to get results.

He's barely got the machine turned on when the Winchesters stumble through the door, Dean supporting the majority of Sam's weight. Sam's expression is as resigned as Dean's is determined, but they're clinging to each other with equal fervour.

Sam sends Bobby a playful scowl over his brother's shoulder as he's dragged into his room for naptime, and Bobby just makes out the muttered comment that overzealous big brothers used to provide coco and marshmallows when putting him to bed, which might go a long way to softening the blow.

Luckily Bobby's phone starts ringing at that exact moment and he's spared hearing Dean's reply. But when Dean exits Sam's room a short time later it's to start clattering about in the kitchen, so it doesn't take a genius to work out whose will had won out.

"You still listening Singer?"

And suddenly he is listening, and listening carefully, watching Dean out of the corner of his eye and trying to keep his own mounting excitement in check. He's been waiting for a break like this for three anxious days; he will not let this lead slip away.

But at the same time he's uneasy. If Bobby thinks he is keen to see their malicious energy being destroyed… that's nothing to how desperately Dean wants to end it. If Dean finds out Bobby had a means of tracking it down, Bobby will not see him for dust.

And if Dean left now… Bobby doesn't want to think what that will do to Sam. He's still a lot weaker than he's willing to let on, and with a knee, an arm, and several ribs out of commission he's completely reliant on them right now. Dean taking off across country to get revenge, leaving Bobby to play nursemaid, is what nobody needs. And as pliant a patient as Sam is being, Bobby honestly doesn't know if he could do it.

Because just being around Sam, watching him struggle, dredges up a powerful mix of guilt, frustration and rage that it pays not to examine. If he ends up taking his frustration out on Sam, things are likely to spiral away faster than he can fix them.

He's still contemplating what to say for the best when Dean walks back into the room, steaming mug of chocolate and foam clasped in front of him. He sits down on the still ripped sofa opposite Bobby, takes a sip of the drink, and lets out an overly dramatic sigh.

"Bitch fell asleep," He growls out, as though Bobby had been calling on him to defend his choice of beverage.

Dean slams the drink on the table between them, but not before Bobby sees how badly his hands are shaking.

"You find anything?" Dean's indicating to the mass of papers and print outs that litter the table between them, and Bobby's finding it hard to read his voice and stance.

"Maybe," he admits reluctantly. Dean will already have picked up from his movements, and the little of the conversation he heard, that Bobby's onto something. He can't exactly lie about it. And when he starts packing up to leave it's going to be unavoidably obvious.

He's just going to have to set his cards on the table and hope he can get Dean to see reason.

"Stratton – the nurse that disappeared from here Friday… His body turned up in Weatherford. That's about 200 miles from here, just south of the border with Nebraska. Small town off the beaten track… kinda like this one. One guy's already been found badly beaten to death, before Stratton apparently threw himself off a bridge."

"So it's starting up all over again."

He'd been expecting it, but the wave of fury emanating from the other man still takes Bobby by surprise.

But not half as much as his next words do.

"So when are you heading out?"

"As soon as I can get some stuff together," he says carefully, "I don't want to risk the trail going cold again if it's just swapping hosts and moving on."

Dean seems to process the information for a moment.

"Shit!" he exclaims, bolting to his feet in agitation and making Bobby jump with the vehemence of that one word. Dean's pacing now, looking flustered, and the older man feels as though he can see the whole week's worth of doubt and uncertainty, anger and regret, playing across his features with every stride. Dean's whole body is tingling with it, arms flexing with a desire for action that can't be contained, and Bobby's bracing himself for impact. Dean's eyes are constantly drawn to the closed door that separates him from his brother, and the indecision is obvious.

It takes a moment, but with a breath and a stiffening of his shoulders Dean is able to control himself, to push the emotion back where it came from.

"We can't go with you."

When Dean sits down opposite him again, voice and body calm in the wake of his decision, Bobby almost opens his mouth and gapes at him in surprise.

"I can't…. God, I just… We need to be here right now. And I can't just leave… You get that right?"

"Yeah I get that."

"There's no way he's up to travelling, he's just not… And I can't leave him… I won't."

"No-one's asking you to."

"God this is so messed up."

"Yeah." Bobby's fairly sure the man has never issued a truer statement.

"I hate this, and I hate asking you to do this, but Sam needs to not have any demands on him for a while. I can't ask him to suck it up and hit the road. He can't… not while he's still so…" Dean trails off, staring into the distance.

"You don't have to explain it to me. And you don't have to ask me to do anything. Hell, you'd have had a job holding me back."

He wants to kill it for this conversation alone.

"I'd better get moving." He stands, collecting his meagre possessions together. He suddenly wants to not be here. It's like he's finally been given an out, and he wants to take it. He feels bad leaving Dean holding the fort, but it's not his fort to hold.

There's nothing more he can do for them here, and the thought of the entity still out there has been hanging over the cabin like a mocking cloud. He can't help but feel getting rid of that cloud is the most helpful and healing thing he can do.

Maybe he just wants to believe that. It would make leaving Dean sitting alone on the couch with that lost look on his face a whole lot easier to live with. But when he comes out of the end bedroom with his duffle and jacket the lost look is gone, and the expression that replaces it is so set and determined that Bobby knows he's doing the right thing.

Despite everything that's happened, Dean still trusts him to get this done. And after the major spanner he's just thrown in the works of the brothers' relationship, how close he came to killing them both, it's more than he deserves.

He hovers on the threshold of Sam's room, peering in. Sam's face is turned away from him, his many injuries concealed by blankets and hair. Bobby contemplates briefly whether he should wake him to issue some form of goodbye. To not shoot and run.

He might be a coward but it's so much easier this way. Anything he tries to say will only sound awkward and he doesn't want to leave it on that note.

Then his eyes catch the bloodstains on the headboard they have not been able to wash away. The trail of it spotting across the carpet from when Bobby first carried him into the room; the smears from his desperate make-shift surgery.

And the doubt is gone and he can feel nothing but rage. Sam will still be here when he's finished this; he's made sure of that. And if he can't apologise enough for what he's done, he can at least do this.

He slips back out into the main room of the cabin and shuts the door behind him.

"I'll tell him where you've gone. It's okay," Dean promises, and Bobby's practically herded out to his car. He knows Dean's equally keen to have an end in sight, but it's something more than that too. It's the desire to have Bobby gone – Dean's seemed much more relaxed since contemplating it.

He's been acting as a kind of buffer, maintaining the peace and distance between them. It had been needed at the time, but he can tell by the way Dean harries him across the yard that's no longer the case. His presence has become a barrier. He's enabling their avoidance by providing an alternative route. Dean's expression says he's ready to confront the issues they've both been shielded from.

And he can't do that with Bobby still here.

That's all the reassurance and permission Bobby needs to get him moving.

-0-

Dean starts banging on the bathroom door right on cue, and Sam does his best to ignore it. But then the hollering starts and that's a whole lot harder to pretend he can't hear.

"Will you let up, I'm not gonna drown."

"Yeah…, but…"

"Look, it's a 10 by 10ft room. It has one door and no windows. I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

"Okay, just… holler if you need me."

"Will do," Sam promises, somehow managing to sound more condescending than reassuring. Dean's shuffled away from the other side of the door before Sam's fully processed it though, so he's spared having to give any ground.

He turns his attention away from the door and back to the mirror with a wince, leaning in over the sink and causing his ribs to scream out a protest march. He peels back the taped on bandage at his shoulder with a hiss and runs his fingers over the healing flesh beneath. It's mending well, but he will carry a permanent reminder of this week with him.

As if he will be able to forget.

Curiosity satisfied he recovers the wound, praying the tape will still hold because reapplying it one handed is more than he has the energy to attempt.

He's bone weary and the ache runs deep. The layers of bandages adorning his body make it hard to shower, but he'd thought a strategic soaking in the bath would have soothed his sore muscles.

He hadn't counted on how exhausting simply getting in and out of the damn tub could be.

He can feel his eyelids drooping and he has to catch himself on the sink, rest his weight for just a moment to push back the rolling waves of fatigue. He can hear Dean keeping close in the corridor outside and he's not sure how he feels about that anymore. It's a relief to know that Dean is close, and the sentiment is appreciated, but at times it can be stifling and he came into the bathroom to get away. This is the only door in the cabin that has a lock; not that he feels confident enough to use it.

But whether it's a physical lock or not it's a barrier they both respect and understand. Dean will not be coming in unless he's invited.

Unless Sam takes a swan dive. Or waits too long answering Dean's calls.

When he opens his eyes Sam finds his forehead resting on the damp surface of the mirror, and the pressure of his hip bone on the edge of the sink is a sudden unexpected agony he has to shift to avoid.

The water had been warm and the room is still humid, making his head pound, but clad only in a towel Sam realises he's become chilly.

Drying and dressing while balancing on one leg and using only one arm seems even more of a challenge now than it did when he'd first scrambled out of the water, but time seems to have taken care of one of those difficulties while he'd been lost in his reflection in the mirror. He might be feeling sticky and not much cleaner than when he'd hobbled in here, but for the most part he is dry.

He picks his shirt up off the counter and stares at it for a full minute, as though he could will it on, suddenly not quite sure of the mechanics behind the simple piece of fabric. Dean would know, but he's not calling his brother in here to dress him. He made it from his room to the bathroom, undressed, into and out of the bath without aid. He will not trip on the last hurdle.

Sighing he sinks down wearily onto the toilet lid, extending his still painful knee in front of him, and turns his full attention to the plaid torture device in his hand.

His ribs are still bound and he can't lift his arms high enough to mess with a t-shirt, but he can struggle his bound wrist into an armhole… any armhole will do…

No wait. That's not how this works…

Sam's fairly sure putting a shirt on didn't used to involve this much pain, or holding the collar straight with his teeth, or bring tears to his eyes, but he honestly can't remember. There seems to be a layer of fog blanketing his mind, and trying to think past last week is like trying to wade through molasses.

But he's an expert at fastening buttons one-handed by now. He seems to have one more button than hole, and he can't remember having had that problem the last time he wore this shirt, but his backside is going numb on the hard porcelain and Dean's been silent for almost five minutes, so his brain has other concerns than whether he can learn haberdashery before he makes it out in public.

He leans over to pluck clean boxers off the floor with a groan. By the time he's straightened up he realises he has to get back down there to hook them over his feet, and how long have his feet been that ridiculously far away from his body? He feels vaguely like he's attempting hoopla at the fair, but eventually he manages to snag the material in place and wriggle his toes in. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, but both require energy, and sleeping is the more attractive option.

It's only the determination that he will not have Dean scoop him off the toilet lid, half dressed and with his boxers around his ankles, which gets him hauling the offending items up to his knees, then dragging himself to his feet so he can bring them to his hips.

That and the fact his ass is damp and uncomfortable from sitting on the wet towel.

The feel of elastic against his skin burns and he has to ease the band down to rest under the stark purple bruising of his left hip bone. While the majority of the marks on his ribs and chest, elbows, arms and faces have faded to a sickly green by now, this injury is still fresh. And it's another of the reasons he's shying off Dean's assistance until it's no-longer exposed.

The first time he'd woke alone it had been a little disorientating. He hadn't realised how claustrophobic having Dean and Bobby around had been until their presence was removed, and suddenly in that instant, everything had been too much. He'd just needed to get away. Get some air and try to breathe.

But there was a reason he had not been left unsupervised before this point. Sam had made it out of the room without incident, but when he'd pushed off from the door frame his coltish legs had managed only two steps before the ground was rushing up to meet him.

It was a testament to how exhausted Dean must have been that the sound of all 190 lbs of Sam's weight hitting the wooden floor had not immediately roused him. He'd lain spread-eagle, breathing in dust from the Oriental rug, for a good few minutes trying to build up the courage to attempt moving again.

In the end he'd crawled his painful way to the front door, aware of how exposed his position was, cringing at the prospect of discovery. He'd been determined to sit on the deck and get some air, and he had the bruises to prove it. He couldn't have turned back; clawing his way up the bed frame and under the covers was going to have to be a team effort.

"Sam?"

"Hmmmmm?"

"What the hell are you doing in there?

"Ummm…. What?"

Dean knocking on the door again wakes Sam up to his surrounding.

"Yeah, gimme a minute."

He drops his shirt back down to conceal the bruise and tries to remember what he'd been doing before it had distracted him.

Dressing.

Shirt – check.

Sweat pants -? He fully intends to bury himself in blankets at the earliest possible opportunity, so it isn't like he needs them for warmth…

And socks can go screw.

He takes one last look at himself in the mirror on the way past, grimacing that he managed to pick a shirt almost the exact same shade of green as the bruises on his neck. When Jess had lolled around their apartment on lazy Sunday afternoons dressed only in shorts and one of his old shirts, Sam had usually had to fight down the urge to jump her. So why was it he looked like a refugee from a home for the bewildered?

Dean's standing on the other side of the door with his fist raised ready to knock when Sam finally opens it. Sam can chart Dean's expression flicking from worry to amusement the instant his eyes hit Sam.

"Don't even," Sam warns him as he exits the room.

"Dude…"

"I mean it, not a word." But he's smiling along with his brother as he trails one hand against the wall to guide him down the corridor at Dean's side. Sam's more than conscious of how ridiculous he looks partially dressed with his buttons fastened wrong, towel dried hair in desperate need of a comb. Expecting Dean to hold in his amusement is probably an unreasonable demand at the moment.

That doesn't mean he won't try and push away Dean's attempts to fix him.

"Lemme alone," he protests. He's too tired to be concerned with his appearance right now.

"Just two seconds."

"Deeeaaan," He huffs, and man – that sounded whiny even to him.

"Humour me. I haven't let you out in public looking this messed up since you spilt flour all over yourself when you were two. It's like your spitting on my hard work here; what kind of big brother would I be if I let you be seen like that? Although I stood by and let you pick out that shirt in the first place, so maybe I do deserve some punishment."

Sam pulls a face to express his lack of amusement and pushes Dean away.

"For that, I'm gonna let you suffer," He declares, ignoring Dean's still searching hands and continuing on his way back to the living room. "I thought I'd try and make you look good by association, but it's not like I'm going to be seen by anyone. I think your reputation will remain intact."

As the cabin opens up into the living area Sam runs out of wall and it's harder to conceal his exhaustion. He hadn't realised himself how heavily he'd been leaning on it until the prop is removed, and he sways slightly trying to find his centre of balance.

He closes his eyes against the sudden vertigo and strong arms are encircling him. A hand grips his arms and another rests on the small of his back and the room stops rocking instantly.

"Dude, I do not need you to look good. I've been struggling against that my whole life. I think I've got it covered all by myself."

The hand on his back is steering him in the direction of his room, and Sam smiles at the contradiction in tones between Dean's hands and his mouth.

"Sofa," He murmurs instead, leaning away from Dean and trying to steer them back into the centre of the room.

"Sam…" low and slightly warning.

"I'm clean and I'm dressed and I'm feeling half way human, just…" He doesn't quite know how to explain it but now that he's out, he doesn't want to have to go back in there. This might be the room he was attacked in, but the bedroom is no-longer the sanctuary it once was. It's dark and it's stuffy and it holds the lingering scent of sickness and blood. Just the thought of crossing the threshold is depressing to the degree that it drags his mood downwards.

"'K," Dean relents, easing him into the unscarred couch.

Sam takes a moment to note how easily Dean caved after all the time spent hovering at the bathroom door. He's been doing that more readily of late – Sam can remember times when he'd been injured and Dean would not have taken no for an answer. But he's weighing Sam's wants into his nursing techniques now more than he ever has.

Sam's grateful, but somehow it doesn't feel like a victory.

As he sinks into the couch he can't contain the groan of relief. He dragged a duvet out with him in preparation, but has left it draped over a chair on the other side of the room.

Before he can so much as shiver though, the soft warm weight is draped over him. The change of scenery, soft seat and added warmth is bliss, but Sam grimaces as he shifts to get comfortable and he catches Dean's frown before his brother can turn away.

He wants to curl up and go to sleep but he has to physically lift his injured leg onto the sofa; the knee joint isn't keen on the idea of bending for pleasure. If he keeps it extended his feet hang over the arm of the couch, and his purloined bedding doesn't seem to want to reach that far.

He twitches his uncovered toes with disgruntlement, rethinking his stance on socks.

"Serves you right for being so long," Dean grumbles. "If you'd gone to bed you wouldn't have had this problem." But he's scooping up an abandoned shirt from the floor as he complains, dropping it haphazardly over Sam's feet to cover them, and Sam smiles, wondering if Dean's even aware that he's done it.

"I'm good here… Thanks," Sam offers when Dean fails to move away. One positive thing about hiding away in his room was that Dean could close the door and not have to think about things for a while. Having Sam out here makes the situation even more unavoidable, but he's not going to apologise for it, and he's too drained to even think about moving again. Dean's going to have to get used to having Sam in his face 24/7 if they ever plan on leaving here.

He can imagine well enough how Dean must be feeling – he's been on the giving end of the whammied ass kicking on more than one occasion. Has experienced the conflict between whether to hover or leave well alone. Sam doesn't know himself which one he'd prefer, and there's no balance that can humour them both.

Dean sighs and moves away, and Sam's muscles relax. He hadn't realised how tense his thoughts - or Dean's looming presence - had made him, but he knows Dean noted the change. His brother is still fidgeting, stealing glances at Sam; flashes of that 'we need to talk' expression that had got him fleeing to the bathroom in the first place.

But Dean can talk all he wants; Sam isn't going to stop him. He isn't going to do much of anything at all. The urge to close his eyes is too strong and he won't be able to fight it for much longer. There's nothing to stay awake for anyway. Nothing that won't still be waiting when he wakes.

Sometimes he wishes that wasn't true; that Dean weren't so reliable, but it's also one of the few certainties in his whole messed up existence, so he will cling to it for now. Because if Dean has his way there will come a day when it's no longer the case. Sam would rather have Dean awkward and hovering than no Dean at all.

Sam doesn't believe for an instant that Dean will hurt him again. He should be reassuring Dean of that fact. He should be using the down time to save his brother. This is what he'd wanted; a reason not to hunt, to not have to be distracted from his goal for even a moment.

But he's too tired to concentrate past the screaming fear in his head.

He's been exhausted for days, but he's been giving in to it, too. Not really making an effort to fight it, but using the fatigue as a way to avoid the thoughts and conversations he would rather ignore. Maybe that isn't fair to a brother who is so obviously trying, but knowing he's being selfish and caring enough to change it are two different things.

He has no right to be as put out by the situation as he is. Not after Ellicott. Not after Meg. Not after the hours Dean has spent trying to convince him not to hold himself accountable for their actions.

He wonders if Dean still believes that. Because so far, he's been unable to issue the same assurances. It's not that he doesn't believe them; he does. He knows the thing that held him down and beat him was not his brother, and he wants Dean to know that too.

But that's hard to vocalise that when he won't take the same absolution for himself.

When he won't admit to the reasons he might not deserve it.

Dean's taken Sam's hypocrisy in his stride. He's done everything right, and he's treaded more softly than Sam deserves. But even as Sam's wondering whether he should give Dean something to reward him for his patience, his eyes slip closed. The worry is still there, but it's more distant in the dark and he can't remember exactly what it's directed at. As the tension slips away there's nothing holding him on to consciousness, and his thoughts melt into the blackness.

Evening has drawn in when Sam next opens his eyes. His body is stiff and his cheek squashed against the back of the sofa, bending his nose out of shape. It had been blissfully comfortable when he'd sat down, but now his body has moulded itself to the lumpy seat, and his ass has gone missing somewhere in the gap between two cushions.

He struggles briefly but his ribs protest, and he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out in pain and frustration.

He hates this. He fucking hates this. He knows Dean's finding it no picnic, but the thing is out of him now and he can get himself off the couch and pee standing up, so Sam's feeling less sympathetic than he wants to. Dean lost control, but he got it back. Sam can do nothing for himself right now. It's melodramatic, but he feels stripped of his free will. Sometimes it feels as though his free will is all he has, and he's been clinging to it like it's his last line of defence against… he has no idea what. Maybe if he did he wouldn't feel quite so overwhelmed all the time.

He frees his nose from the cushion and is overcome by the scent of ­tomatoes and toast. He can hear Dean humming to himself in the kitchen and it makes him smile. Dean is making tomato soup, and he doesn't even particularly like tomato soup, but for Sam it's comfort food and he's feeling embarrassingly touched by the gesture.

"A little help here," he croaks out when Dean's energies draw him close to Sam's side of the room. He's made it onto his back so he's no longer at risk from suffocating but he'd quite like to sit up, and there's no way he can accomplish that under his own steam.

Raised eyebrows appear in the air above him.

"I think I'm kinda stuck." He admits gracefully, with a self-deprecating smile.

"Yet another problem that could have been avoided by going to bed," Dean grumbles as he helps Sam rise, but his tone is mocking not harsh, his hands that shade of gentle that always manages to take Sam by surprise. The fabric of the sofa had been uncomfortable against his skin, but Dean's hands and his probing are not.

He almost drags the cushion off the seat getting into a sitting position, and it's a shock to Sam too that his laugh is genuine.

Dean sits him up and draws the blankets around him, and it's not as emasculating as it should be. Because Dean still had his free will, and he lets Sam share it, and sometimes that's enough.

The smell of food makes his stomach groan, and for the first time since Wyoming Dean doesn't have to prompt him to eat. When Dean spills soup down his front, lamenting his brother's table manners comes naturally, but when Sam flicks a piece of bread roll across the room at him, the grin Dean flashes takes his breath away.

From his pre-sleep hovering to now, Dean looks as though he's de-aged about a decade. He's still flashing Sam glances out of the corner of his eyes, but the lines of Dean's shoulders are more relaxed than Sam's seen them in days, and there's a level of hope in his expression that Sam had not believed possible.

And suddenly his throat closes. He drops his bowl onto the table with a clank and the spoon breaks free, clattering noisily across the table. It's less subtle then he'd been going for but he wouldn't have been able to hold it steady for much longer, and dropping it all down himself would have been just as noticeable.

"Sam?" And that cloud of concern is back in Dean's voice.

"'s 'k," He attempts, but the hand brushing his hair away from his face is shaking too much to fool anyone.

He's freaking Dean out, and he's so angry with himself because that was kind of the point. Dean is the one that was violated, but Sam's attitude is the only thing that makes a difference. Sam can take the lines of strain from around Dean's eyes, but he can take no solace in that, because he's the one that put them there in the first place.

And it isn't just the recent possession that Dean's reacting to. That look was there before. It's been there since Wyoming, and Sam's only just beginning to understand why. He'd put it down to Dean's fear over the deal. Over going to Hell. The strain of the pointless façade his brother has been living behind since the realisation sank in. It would be understandable, because Sam's fear is overwhelming and he's not going anywhere, Dean's seen to that.

But that's not all it is. Dean's confession to Bobby proves that.

And that is not his fault.

Sam didn't ask to be brought back, and he doesn't want responsibility for the consequences.

But he doesn't want Dean to face them alone either.

He wants to reassure his brother. He wants to make it right. He wants to just be Sam. That's all he's ever wanted to be – it's what every one of his secrets, his escapes, has been designed to preserve. But between what the demon showed him and Ruby's revelations, because of the pit of fear and rage in his stomach, he knows that can never be true. And he doesn't have the words. He wishes he did. Maybe Dean would worry less if he did, but his brother doesn't deserve to deal with the truth, and he definitely doesn't deserve lies. So until reality becomes unavoidable, Sam will hold his tongue.

This is one issue that Sam does not feel qualifies to fix. That Dean might look at him differently is a nightmare he's been fighting against his whole life. It started before the visions, with the realisation he wanted something more than monsters and darkness and stitching his family back together in another mould encrusted motel.

Sam's always been different. He's always been exasperating. Dean's always been worried.

He's never been scared before.

Because of him maybe. For him often. But never of him.

And Sam wants to be furious at Dean's mistrust. That Dean can doubt who his brother is, doubt Sam's heart, when all Sam's tried to do for the last two months is save him. Even if saving Dean is at the expense of himself. Even if trying to do so is a constant uphill struggle against Dean's own heartlessly cavalier interference.

He wants to rail against the injustice, that they can finally be free of a shadow that's been haunting them all their lives, but find no peace. No solidarity. But that's all he's been doing for weeks, whether he'd realised it or not, and it doesn't solve anything and it's too exhausting to keep up.

And how can Dean have these uncertainties, and still make Sam's life so hard? Still not be willing to risk the thing he brought back, in order to save himself?

Things have been strained and uncomfortable; the relationship he had built and come to rely on had been twisted. Because Dean had given his life for Sam, and what was Sam supposed to say to that? 'Thank you' fell short. 'Why?' was derisive. 'How could you?' a little too close to the truth to tread comfortably.

Dean wasn't just going to die. He was going to Hell. Forever. Sam didn't know how to untwist that.

But they've been pretending pretty well these last few days, hiding behind recent events to avoid the other issues that divide them.

Dean's unease has been palpable. He's tended, he's hovered, and he's set up more protection wards around this cabin than even their father at his most paranoid could conjure up, checking them morning and night as obsessively as he checks Sam. He's trying to understand the logic behind that – how Dean can both let his unease get the better of him, and shore up their lodgings as though it holds the most precious thing in existence.

He lacks the energy to work out what that means, but he wants to focus on the fierce determination behind Dean's actions. Wants to let it warm him.

It's become an unspoken understanding between them. As long as the entity is still out there, Dean will panic and Sam will let him. Dean needs to be able to feel that he can offer some line of protection against this thing, whether it's coming after them again or not.

It's not an unreasonable fear – it got the better of them once, and as far as they've been able to determine they're the sole survivors of this thing's rampage. That it might consider them unfinished business is not beyond the realms of possibility. And as loathed as he is to admit it, if it marched in here right now the only thing Sam would be able to do to defend himself is glare and flick bread. He doesn't blame Dean for being paranoid.

But Bobby's been gone close to 48 hours now. Sam thinks Dean spoke with him earlier today, but like so much of the last week the words are hazy. But it can only be a matter of time, and things can only get easier when the weight of reprisal is lifted.

Everything will seem clearer on the other side of this kill. Perhaps they will be equals again. He has to believe that.

Dean's still watching him, and his expression tells Sam he isn't going to be able to avoid a conversation for much longer. But he can't face the thought of having it. He can't decide if he had nothing, or too much, to say. And he knows Dean won't want to hear any of it. Won't be able to make any more sense of it than he can.

Sam's tired, it's true, but he doesn't want to sleep. He just doesn't want to be awake any more either. Doesn't want to be here, in this room with Dean. He wants to march out of the front door and keep going, head for the tree-line and not look back.

But that's out of the question.

He thinks back to a week ago, to storming to his room and slamming the door like a petulant child; the frustration and embarrassment that move had caused him. Now he longs for it, but such a simple action is beyond him. He can't even make it off this chair unaided, let alone cross the room and reach his bed.

"Tell me what you're thinking."

He can feel the strength of Dean's gaze, but he doesn't lift his head to meet it. The speckled grain of the carpet has never been more interesting, and to his mortification Sam can feel his breath hitching. There's a solid presence in his throat that he can't swallow down.

"I'm trying, but man… you gotta help me out. I don't know what to do here."

Dean falls silent but he doesn't look away. His voice is so soft and earnest, so quietly patient, that Sam can't take it. He can't contemplate what the confession must have cost Dean. To let the cracks in his bullshit 'we can fix this, there's nothing wrong' façade finally show. The fact that Dean is sat here at all, in this room that Sam wants to flee from, breaking down his own walls in an effort to see over Sam's, means more to Sam than he could ever express. Means more to him than all the care and guilt, all the false smiles and cheerful reassurances he's ever been given in his life.

But those walls are there for a reason.

"Please. Give me something here. Help me understand what you're thinking."

What he's thinking.

He's thinking that in ten months his brother will be dead. That for every time Dean ever told him it was never going to happen, that Sam would never be the cause of his brother's death, that had all been a massive lie. Because he was at the very centre of it, just as he's always known that he would be. Just as though he'd wielded that knife himself.

He's thinking that he died. That he should have died. Should have stayed dead, and done, and finished. Should feel more alive than he does. More grateful than he does. More real.

But there's too much fear for that.

And anger. It's become one of his key emotions. It's overtaken the guilt and the need for atonement that had sustained him this far. A burning resentment, a reckless determination that isn't him, but he can't be rid of. And he needs it, whether he wants it or not. Needs it to help make sense of the life he's now living. Or that fact he's living at all.

He might not agree with what Dean did, but the idea that Dean might regret that choice, truly and fully regret it, is devastating.

He doesn't doubt that Dean loves him. But he doesn't know if Dean trusts him. Not really. Not if he could believe. Not if he could go behind Sam's back, go to Bobby like that. Be convincing enough to turn others against him.

He's thinking about how much he wants to just be Dean's little brother. No visions, no destiny, no knowledge of the truth that lies in his veins. He just wants to be Sam. He just wants Dean to look at him, and see Sam. Because he doesn't know who he is anymore.

And he's thinking that Dean can never, ever, know that.

He wants to be able to give Dean something, he doesn't want to be the burden that he is, but he doesn't know how to begin to put that into words.

"Do you trust me?"

"What?" He does look up this time, meeting Dean's eyes in surprise. He understands why Dean feels the need to ask, but they wouldn't have got through that first night if Sam didn't. If Sam didn't know that it hadn't been Dean looking out of his brother's eyes with such homicidal glee.

"Is that why you won't…? Because you don't trust me." The way Dean issues it, it isn't a question.

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course." Automatic. By rote. The answer he wants to give, is used to giving, no thought involved.

The lie.

"Really?" He's too weary to be confrontational, to really go to town on the utter ludicrousness of Dean's assertion. Bobby would not have shot him if Dean had trusted him.

He should be mad about that fact, but mostly he's just sad.

"I trust you. I know things got… confused. And I have… questions. But I trust you. I trust in you. I know who you are."

"I don't. So how can you possibly?"

"Are you saying I shouldn't trust you?"

"No!"

Dean's smiling at the annoyance in his tone, and Sam wants to be angry at that. Angry that he's playing the hard done by and misunderstood little brother role and Dean's calling him on it, but he's finding Dean's amusement more reassuring than annoying. Because of course Dean can trust him. It's the automatic response, but that doesn't mean it isn't true. He might have no clue what's going on, what really runs through his veins or what it means. He might be angry, he might be frustrated, and he might be scared. He might be more trigger happy than he used to be. Less tolerant. Less willing to make mistakes. But he knows what the stakes are and he's not willing to lose.

He might not know what the future holds, but he knows that right now he's right here, and he has Dean's back. And perhaps it's not so ludicrous that despite whatever else might be going on, whatever secrets they keep, Dean knows that too.

He sinks back into his seat with a sigh and closes his eyes, willing Dean to not be looking at him when he re-opens them.

"How can a place like this not have a TV?" he grumbles.

"I think the idea is to go out in the fresh air, do a little communing with nature." Dean slips into his role without being pushed, and Sam's so grateful for that he could cry.

There's the sound of ceramic scraping against wood. Sam looks up to see Dean nudging a half eaten sandwich towards him, innocent expression fixed firmly on his face.

"Maybe later."

He's feeling better than he had when he'd abandoned it, but his appetite is still gone. He can see Dean debating whether or not to press the issue, but then Dean's phone starts ringing and Sam's saved from having to justify himself further.

"Bobby," Dean mouths, putting his own plate down and standing to answer it. He doesn't leave to talk in private, just paces, and Sam has to close his eyes to listen because Dean's circling is making him dizzy.

"Yeah…. No, that's good… where was it hiding? Uh huh…. Makes sense I suppose…. And the ritual definitely worked. I mean, it's definitely gone…. Yeah…. Humour me. What about the host…? That's good…. They remember anything…? Yeah well…. easier said than done …. Yeah…."

He tunes the rest of the conversation out to background noise; the steady hum of Dean's thought process and presence. He thinks he catches his name a couple of times, the words 'rehab' and 'mauling', something about smelting silver for ammo, and he wants to laugh at how insane yet completely normal it is to be lying here black and blue, listening to Dean discussing forging techniques and bitching about the price of gas.

So that's it then.

They started this hunt 10 days ago in a diner south of Newark, enjoying post arson pancakes and trying not to eavesdrop on the cute waitress and her friend. Until they realised she was discussing a spate of grizzly murders in the small community where her uncle lived, and then they'd both given up pretending.

Sam can still remember the look of glee that Dean had flashed him as he'd got up to introduce himself. He wonders if, with hindsight, the charms of Kylie Millhouse would appear worth it.

The world goes quiet. There's the shuffling of springs as Dean sits back down on the couch opposite him. Sam opens his eyes in time to see Dean pick up his own plate, stare at his food, the lean over and drop it on the table next to Sam's already abandoned fair.

"So the thing's toast then?" He asks, knowing full well the answer.

"Yeah."

"Well that's it then."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

They fall silent. This is what they've been waiting for since Bobby left. Since the moment he woke. This was supposed to be the magic bullet that fixed everything.

But nothing's changed.

"Huh."

"Yeah." Dean agrees with a sigh.

The entity's gone, the threat is removed, but Sam's shoulders don't feel any lighter. The confusion has not been lifted. The way is not clear. It might be some relief to know no more people will suffer, but it makes no real difference to how he was feeling. Because it doesn't fix what's broken.

Things were broken long before they came here.

"So, do you think she really has a baby?"

Sam blinks.

"Who?"

"Gina."

A pause.

"Jennifer?"

"'Cos with a figure like that… I mean, she didn't say not to call round. Just that the car might wake the baby. So if we were to park up and walk…"

"We?"

"She has a housemate. Possibly… I really wasn't listening carefully."

"Well that was obvious."

"What about it? I mean, I'm not saying right now. But…. Before we go, maybe…"

There's still so much they need to work through. Secrets on either side. Dean's still going to Hell. Sam still has no idea how to stop it, what Ruby's agenda really is, what the future holds.

But his present holds his brother, leaning casually over to spike an uneaten piece of sandwich oozing cheese off Sam's plate with his fork. It holds acceptance, the desire to understand, the willingness to try. They may have a long way to go, but at least they've found their way to the road now and are no-longer stumbling lost among the trees.

"I don't know," he says at last, "You think they'll have a TV?"