with thanks also to reading

The Big Picture
K Hanna Korossy

Sam awkwardly lifted his heavy boot and stomped it twice, hard, against the middle of the door.

Only a few seconds passed before it opened; the "old man" was still spry. Something in Sam warmed fractionally at the familiar face that looked out at him, surprised. "Sam?"

He juggled his burden a little higher against his chest, making sure Dean's head stayed tucked into the crook of his neck. One arm had slid down to hang limply in the air, its damning bandage clearly visible, but there was no helping that now. "I needed someplace safe to take him," Sam said simply.

The door swung wide without hesitation.

He didn't pause to say thank you, just hurried inside. "There's a cooler in the back," was all he snapped out over one shoulder.

Sam knew where the guest room—their room—was already and headed straight there, laying Dean down on the closer bed with a relieved sigh. For all the fact that he would've carried Dean to the ends of the Earth if necessary, his brother was friggin' heavy. Not to mention way too still.

Sam had both their jackets off before there was a noise behind him, the cooler dropping to the floor. Sam immediately wheeled around and went down on one knee, flipping the ice chest open to reveal the three pints of blood nestled inside. Then he looked up into the worried eyes that peered down at him.

"Pastor Jim, I need your help."

00000

The house looked smaller, more forlorn, without the lights in the windows Sam remembered from his childhood. But it was still as close to home as he and Dean had ever come, and there was comfort now in the familiar shape, the faded shutters and crooked gate and overgrown garden. Some of Sam's tension evaporated at just being there.

He took the keys out of the ignition and glanced at the slumbering figure molded into the corner of car seat and door, mouth slightly open in congested breathing. "Dean? Hey."

Even hunter's reflexes couldn't stand up to the combined assault of illness and medication. Dean stirred slowly, prying sluggish eyes open to stare more or less Sam's way. "Hmm?"

"We're here. Hang on." Sam climbed out of the car, pocketing the keys as he strode around to the passenger side. He opened that door slowly, unsurprised when Dean would've come tumbling with the door. As it was, he stared at Sam's propping arm like he wasn't sure what it was.

"S'm?"

"Yeah, dude. Just a minute and we'll get you inside and comfortable, all right?"

"Hmm."

Sam peeled him out, having to lift his legs to set them on the dirt, then pull him to his feet. Dean wavered like a reed in the wind, and Sam quickly clasped an arm around him. "Y'all right?"

Dean muttered something that sounded like "Zissifen," which Sam decided was a yes and coaxed his brother along. It wasn't all that different from guiding a very drunk Dean along, the rare times Dean let himself get that sloshed.

Of course, drunk-Dean didn't stop midway to fold in half and try to cough a lung up.

The bout didn't seem like it would be ending any time soon, and the cold outside air wasn't helping. Sam finally winced and swept a convulsing Dean into his arms and carried him up to the door. He leaned his shaking brother there against the clapboard while he bent down and quickly picked the lock. They had a key, somewhere, and there was a key hidden on the property, somewhere, but they were Winchesters and this was faster.

Dean was still hacking when Sam tried to pick him up again, but it didn't stop his big brother from giving him a don't even think about it look, so Sam more or less dragged him inside. He didn't even pause to close the door, just headed for the back bedroom with Dean in tow. Jim's room was closer but they never slept there.

By the time they reached the bedside, Dean wasn't holding any of his own weight, bent double while he tried to inhale amid the rough coughs. Sam only paused long enough to fling the blankets back before letting him drop onto the edge of the bed, then sitting beside him. Dean hated touchy-feely, hated any show of weakness, but Sam kinda didn't care when breathing was an issue. He straightened Dean up against him, one hand against his chest, the other around his back. "Easy," he murmured, knowing it was a meaningless platitude and also not caring. "Small breaths, Dean. Don't fight it, just relax and breathe."

Cheek mashed up against Sam's collar bone and shoulder digging into his chest, Dean continued to struggle and fight. He'd never known how to do anything else.

Sam bent his head low by the tousled head, voice low and warm. "Ease off, man. I've got it." He probably should've been invoking Dad, commanding Dean to settle down, but Sam had never believed that the best way and wasn't about to resort to it now. He moved his hand against Dean's ribs in a soothing up and down sweep. "Relax, you stubborn jerk. Don't fight me."

Maybe it was putting it like that, or maybe it was Dean just reaching his limits, but he finally leaned into Sam, sipping air between weakening coughs. His eyes were half-open, but when Sam ducked down to see them, they drifted aimlessly over the room, unseeing. Exhaustion, then. Well, whatever worked.

Still talking quietly, Sam made a mound of the pillows on the bed, then eased Dean down against them, half upright. He'd breathe better, and Sam still wanted to get some water and medicine into him. He pulled the blankets up to mid-chest and tucked them in, then smiled wanly as he watched Dean's eyes droop shut. Only when they were completely closed did Sam let himself slump, head hanging between his shoulders.

Stupid, stubborn older brothers.

With only a year left to live—theoretically—Dean was treating each day like it was his last. But it wasn't, nor was he indestructible even with time left on the clock. Too little sleep and too much wild living had finally caught up with him in a bout of pneumonia with a bronchitis chaser. The clinic Sam had forced his suddenly invalid brother to had wanted to send him to the hospital. Sam had raided their drug cabinet, grabbed Dean, and headed north to Minnesota instead.

Then again, maybe Dean getting sick had just been a convenient excuse to come.

The outside door was still letting in the fall chill, and their supplies were in the car. Dean still sounded like an end-stage emphysema patient, breathing in long, wheezy gasps, and needed water. But just for a moment, Sam dropped back across the end of the bed, staring up at the ceiling, blinking eyes that seemed to permanently burn with tears those days.

This was right. This was where he needed to be. Sam reached out blindly, curling his fingers around Dean's lightly scarred wrist.

There was hope here.

00000

Jim Murphy had taught Sam at least as much emergency first aid as their father had, and he worked alongside Sam with sure competence.

He'd produced a hook from someplace—houseplant hanger, maybe?—and hung it on the headboard, then attached the unit of blood to it. Sam, meanwhile, had propped Dean's feet with pillows, then prepped his arm, rolling up his sleeves and swabbing the inside of his elbow, over the scabbed pinprick already there. He slid the needle in without any response from Dean, then nodded at Jim. The priest released the clamp and the blood started to flow.

They both breathed out. Sam rubbed a hand over his face, then stood and eased the blankets out from under Dean to tuck him in. One arm went under the covers, but the one with the needle had to stay above, and Sam winced a little, eyes dark and sorrowful, as Jim slid a hand under Dean's bandaged wrist and held it gently.

"What happened?"

The question wasn't unexpected, and the tone was completely neutral, nonjudgmental, as were the eyes that peered up at Sam. Still, he felt an automatic wave of defensiveness wash through him. "It's not what it looks like, Pastor Jim."

Jim's mouth softened into a rueful smile. "It rarely is," he said, disarming Sam's anger with a few words. With his free hand, he took Sam's own bare wrist and tugged him down to the side of the bed. Hip against Dean's knee, Sam felt his head clear a little, the frantic beat of his heart slow. They were here, they were safe, and everything would be all right now.

"It was…a priest."

Jim's brow drew together minutely, and Sam hurried on.

"He fooled both of us—we thought he was worried about what was thinning his flock." Sam's lips twisted wryly. "Turned out he was the wolf. He was a priest, all right, just for the wrong god."

Jim's eyebrow went up. "A cult?"

Sam nodded, head feeling heavy and dull. He didn't even know how many hours had passed since he'd dashed into that dark underground room, seen Dean… "We split up to talk to people—you know, trying to figure it out. They took Dean. They, uh…I guess Molech's into human sacrifices…"

"Since Old Testament times," Jim said quietly. His finger smoothed over the stark white bandage. "They were bleeding him?"

Sam swallowed, and leaned forward to push Dean's sleeve up a little higher. Halfway along the upper arm was a pair of parallel bruised lines. "They had him tied down to this…altar and…the grooves were already filled with blood…"

A squeeze of his knee jolted his eyes up to Jim's face, the sympathy there almost more than he could handle. "But you were in time."

Sam's response was a whisper. "I almost wasn't." He cleared his throat. "I think I…killed the priest—I don't know, I just…kinda went crazy, I guess. I called the police later, after we were at the hospital, but…" He shook his head hopelessly. "All the doctors could see were the cut wrists, and then when Dean started muttering about sacrifices and demons…"

Jim's face tightened. "You did the right thing, Sam. They wouldn't have understood."

Sam gulped and nodded blindly.

Jim peeled back some of the bandage. "Well, it looks like they did a good job sewing him up, and I'm guessing they transfused him some in the hospital already."

"One pint," Sam said, hushed. "That's when they started talking about restraints and psych evaluations. I stole some blood, snuck Dean out, and booked."

Two fingers now pressed below Dean's chin, the pastor nodded. "His pulse is still too weak and fast, but it's getting stronger and I'm not seeing any signs of organ failure or shock. I think he'll be fine, Sam."

Sam took a breath and let it out slow. He studied his brother's slack face, seeing what Jim must have: the colorless cheeks and pale lips, the eyes that didn't even flutter. His mouth thinned. "Yeah," he said softly.

When he said it out loud, he almost believed it.

00000

The noise woke him, and Sam stared blearily at the small lamp beside the bed for a moment before realizing what he was hearing.

He scrambled up quickly then, across the bed he'd shoved against his brother's. "Dean?"

Dean's eyes were closed but he was coughing roughly, like his throat was lined with bark, chin almost touching his chest with each jolt.

"Hey." Sam sidled up to him, palming cheek, then forehead, making a face at the fever. He grabbed the bottle of water beside the bed and tipped it toward the open mouth.

Dean sputtered at first, but soon tilted back to drink. Sam cupped the back of his neck for support and held the bottle, drawing it back when Dean coughed weakly again, this time in satisfaction.

Sam smiled at the dull green-brown gaze on him. "Feels better, huh?"

Dean blinked, glassy-eyed.

Sam determinedly hung on to the smile. "Let's get you more comfortable, man."

He knelt up on the bed and tugged Dean out of the sweaty t-shirt. Their duffels were in arm's reach, and Sam pulled out a shirt—his, but it didn't matter—and wrestled the cool cotton over his brother's head. Dean leaned back into the pillows as soon as Sam let him go, breathing still labored and skin flushed.

Sam grabbed the washcloth that had slid down sometime during the night, now almost dry, and tipped some of the water bottle's contents onto it. He blotted it over Dean's face before laying it across his forehead. "I think your fever's going down," he mused.

Sam was just pulling his arm back when a hand shot up to grab his wrist. Dean was staring at him, dazed but wary. "Where?" he wheezed.

"Pastor Jim's," Sam said quietly. "It's okay, man—we're safe here."

Dean's brow furrowed, but he accepted that finally, his grip loosening on Sam. "Hmm." His hand dropped and his eyes sank shut, respirations settling into a slow rasp.

"You'll be all right here," Sam whispered, tucking him in. He rewet the compress, then sat a moment longer until he was sure Dean was deeply under again. Sam sighed. There'd be no more sleep for him for a while now, and Dean was okay for the moment. Time to go check out the other reason he'd come here.

Sliding carefully off the bed, Sam pulled his hoodie on and slipped out the bedroom door, down the hall toward the pastor's study.

00000

No matter what, blood transfusions left you feeling lousy. And when close to half your blood volume had been replaced, lousy was a serious understatement.

Dean was curled on his side now, needle-free and arms wrapped around his stomach. He was lucid enough to know where he was and what was going on and to be stoic about it, and drained enough that he wasn't doing a very good job of it. Sam was pretty sure he wasn't even aware of the quiet way he was panting or the occasional grunts that made it past his defenses.

He and Jim had dragged the TV into the room after Dean had started getting restless. Sam found the least offensive of the local channels and turned it low, then settled into a chair beside Dean. The screen's images flickered off dull, sick eyes, but at least it was distraction.

"Here's some more ice," Sam said, pressing another spoonful against chapped lips. Dean needed the fluids, but it also seemed to help the nausea that had already struck twice. Dean accepted the ice without reaction and kept staring at the TV, body twitching in discomfort. Sam would have worried about his state of awareness, except a pat of Dean's back in a moment of weakness had led to a gruff, "get off." It was the first thing Dean had said, and it was stupid how much of a relief it was.

Dean's whole body flinched again, and Sam recognized the signs. He brought up the basin and curled an arm around the invalid's neck, palm against forehead, riding out another bout of heaving with him. Afterward, Dean's eyes sunk even lower, lips barely parting for the ice.

Sam shoved the basin under the bed and bent down next to Dean. "Don't be so stubborn—get some sleep. We got no place else to be."

"Jus' shoot me, Sam," Dean huffed, swallowing thickly.

His mouth quirked. "You're not getting off that easy, dude. Just hang in there—it'll be better soon."

Dean's breath hitched again, but Sam rubbed his stomach and the spasm passed. "'S stinks. Feel like crap."

"Yeah. Hate to tell you, but you kinda look it, too. Next time let's skip the whole playing sacrifice part, all right?"

Dean grumbled something, but his eyes sank shut, his braced frame softening.

Sam waited with him a long minute, then turned the TV down to mute and left the room.

He found Jim in his study, the green banker's light throwing a warm glow over desk and occupant. The genuine smile the cleric offered him pulled an answering one even from Sam's weary heart.

"Dean doing better?"

Sam shrugged. "Still sick to his stomach, but he's started complaining about it so that's something. He's sleeping now."

"Best thing for him," Jim agreed. "He's all right, Sam, he just needs rest now."

Sam nodded listlessly, eyes passing the rows of books on the shelves around them. This room had always reminded him of Uncle Bobby's place, and he wondered if the old junk dealer still had all his library.

"Something else on your mind, son?" Jim asked gently.

Sam blinked at him. He chewed his lip, then his finger, eyes shying to Jim and back again. This was what he wanted—what he needed. "It was a priest," he blurted finally.

A tilt of the head. "So you said. Obviously a very warped one."

"Dean, he keeps thinking we'll find Dad any day now, but, I don't know." He paced, arms restless. "I want to believe, but… He's not answering when we call, not even when Dean was dying, and I just…I don't have the blind faith Dean does, you know? I keep almost losing him, and this time it was a priest, and…I'm just really afraid I'm gonna lose him," Sam ended in a helpless whisper as he dropped onto the settee.

Jim's chair creaked, and Sam tensed fractionally as he felt the older man approach and perch on the edge of a book-laden chair beside him. "Sam, is it really your father your faith is being tested in?"

Sam's nose twitched, mouth trembling and gaze sliding over the floor. "He almost died," he breathed, sounding even to his own ears like the child he'd once been in these very rooms.

A hand settled paternally on his leg. "I know things have been hard and you've both been pushed past what seems reasonable. But free will often leads to bad things happening to good people. That doesn't mean God's forsaken you, or that He doesn't have a plan in this. Sometimes we just can't see it at the time."

Sam met his eyes finally, searching hard. "What plan, Pastor Jim? A man of God almost killed him—how is that good?"

Jim frowned. "That wasn't a man of God, you know that. As for what good…I don't know. Maybe it's as simple as future lives that'll be saved. Or maybe it's as subtle as you needing to be sitting here now, asking these questions."

Sam heaved a bitter laugh. "So this was all just to get my attention?"

"Or to save you from something worse. Or to help you prepare for what lies ahead."

Sam shrank into himself. "Something worse?" he said in a small voice.

Jim's grip tightened. "You don't know that, Sam. That's my point. We can't see everything that's going on here, just our little corner of it. We have no idea how protected we are, what greater evils we're saved from, what effect we might be having on others. We don't know how many times you've both been protected from death, or worse. All I know is this: God has a plan, for our good. And He'll give us the strength to do our part."

Sam sat silent, thinking.

Jim's hand lifted to his shoulder. "Why don't you go make yourself a sandwich? I'll look in on your brother."

Sam sighed and nodded, standing. "Thanks," he said quietly.

Jim's smile was warm. "No thanks needed, you know that, Sam. You're family."

00000

"What're you reading?"

The unexpected, rickety voice almost made him drop the book. As it was, Sam did drop his legs to the floor and lean forward, smiling. "Hey, how're you feeling?"

"Like crap," Dean muttered, then coughed weakly. His eyes moved past Sam to the room, then back again. "We at Jim's?"

"Yeah. Needed a safe place to hole up, and we were close…"

Dean nodded, sank back into the pillows, and closed his eyes. Sam almost thought he'd drifted off again when he sleepily repeated, "What're you reading?"

Sam automatically glanced at the book cover. "Just something from Jim's library."

Dean's mouth twisted. "Don't ask, don't tell?"

"No," Sam shook his head, "it's not about that. It's…" He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. "It's just…I needed to understand something."

Dean peeled an eye open to look at him. He was pale with exhaustion, his freckles prominent, and he should've looked more amusing than he did peering at Sam. "'Bout?"

"Why things happen," Sam said softly. "Where God is in all of this. How He could let you…" His face twisted.

So did Dean's. "Sam…"

"I know you don't believe in all that, Dean, all right? I just…I have to. I have to have something. I need to think…"

Dean started coughing, rougher and louder, back shaking and bent with it. Sam leaned forward to help him tip some water into his mouth. It wasn't time for more pills yet, but maybe a little more cough syrup wouldn't hurt…

Dean sank back into the pillows, still looking like the reanimated dead but his eyes sharp, aware. Seeing into Sam. "It help any?"

Sam's thumb slid along the edge of the book. "I'm working on it."

Dean nodded slowly and let his eyes shut. He sounded half gone when he murmured, "I'm glad."

Sam looked at him in surprise, then not so much. He smiled, leaning back into his chair. Dean had never begrudged him what he needed, regardless whether he believed in it himself. And even in his deepest denial about what he'd done, what he'd consigned them both to in a year, he hadn't resented Sam his comforts.

Maybe if Sam could find his own faith again, he would have some to share with Dean, too.

"Yeah," he said, unexpectedly comforted. "Me, too."

00000

Dean leaned forward against the grill of his car, looking down into the open engine. His bandages were as grimy with grease as the rest of him, but Sam couldn't bring himself to care too much. It was just good to see his brother up and around again.

"Tuning up his baby?" came the fond question from behind him.

Sam's mouth curled around the neck of the beer bottle. "After each time I've driven it for a while. He thinks I throw her out of alignment or something." Sam had already expressed what he thought was really out of alignment, for all Dean had listened.

"You two leaving soon?"

The question was wistful, and Sam was glad he didn't have to see the face that went with it. He bobbed his head, feeling his own reluctance. "We were thinking tomorrow."

"Well, you know the door's always open."

He'd known that even as a kid. Had even voiced it once, in a moment of petulance, his wish that Jim was their father and that they could settle in Blue Earth. Dean had paled, and even a young Sammy soon pieced together from his brother's angry tirade that staying with Jim meant losing Dean. He'd recanted instantly. Home without Dean versus the road with Dean had been no contest.

Sam turned back, gave the older man a real smile. "Thank you."

He got one back. "Just remember, Sam. It's not over yet. There's always more going on than you can see. Don't lose hope."

00000

"I won't," Sam whispered to the house. Then he turned and got into the car, gave his sprawled, grumpy brother a smile, and pulled back out onto the road.

The End