A/N: If anyone finds a video of the boys' answer to my question about wardrobe at the Nashcon, PLEASE send me the link!

Sam tried to stay busy at the kitchen cupboard, doing any little thing he could think of or invent, while Dean stood at the table, not saying anything. He was desperate to turn around and hear what Dean was going to say, but he didn't want to seem like he was pushing him before he was ready to say it.

So he waited.

"Dad didn't break." Dean said, quietly, finally.

"What?" Sam turned to him. Dean was standing there, gripping the chair with white fingers. Just like Sam thought, the snarl was gone, the sorrow was back.

"Dad. He was in hell a hundred years and he didn't break."

His statement took Sam by complete surprise.

"Dean -" He started to say - well, he didn't know what he thought he was going to say. If he wasn't so exhausted, he'd probably laugh. If he wasn't so depressed, he'd probably cry. Was that what Dean was ashamed of? That he wasn't John Winchester? Good God, after everything they'd been through, everything they were still going through, after Dean survived hell, he was still worried about Dad's approval?

Really?

What was he supposed to say? Point out all the ways that Dean wasn't like Dad? Not the best way to get him through his depression, even if not being like Dad was a good thing.

But, no. Sam's mind quickly ran through all the words and ways that Dean had ever got him through his own depressions and desperations. Thinking that, the words came to him.

"Of course Dad didn't break." Sam walked over to the table and stood across from Dean. "He'd finally found the thing that killed Mom and had it in his sights. He could've killed it if he wanted to. Dad went to hell at the top of his game. Of course he didn't break."

Dean didn't answer that, he shrugged a little and looked down but he didn't say anything. Sam sat in his chair, hoping Dean would too and, after a hesitation, Dean sat down across from him.

Sam pushed his argument further.

"I mean - c'mon, man. Dad had what? An hour to think about going to hell? He didn't have a year to think about it and worry about it and try everything and then some to get out of it. He knew we'd take care of each other, so he didn't have a year of worrying what was going to happen to us when he was gone. He didn't have a year of trying his damnedest to teach us everything he possibly could and worrying about everything we didn't know and he wouldn't have a chance to teach us. You had all of that with me. And more. Dean - when you went to hell - you were already totally exhausted." Sam hated to say it, but he said it anyway. "By the time you went to hell, you were half broken already."

A look of anger crossed Dean's face, but disappeared.

"So? Doesn't change anything. I broke, and the dominoes started falling. And I have to run catch them before they all fall."

"We, Dean." Sam said, feeling some aggravation. "We will take care of it. Whatever needs doing, it isn't on you."

"Sam - no - "

"Look, Dean - just - listen to me."

"What?" Dean asked. Demanded. He was still hunched and pale and broken-looking, and Sam still wanted nothing more than to take this burden, this one burden, off of Dean's shoulders.

He wanted to promise that they'd figure it out. He wanted to promise - again - that he could keep Dean from going back to hell. He wanted to tell Dean exactly why he knew it wasn't Dean's mess to clean up and exactly how he was going to clean it up instead.

He wanted to, but he couldn't. Dean wouldn't believe him, and it wasn't true, and Dean would never forgive him.

"Look, there's nothing we need to do right now. There's nothing we can do right now." Sam said instead. "So you get some more sleep and I'll -." He heaved a deep sigh and gestured wearily, angrily, to his computer. "I'll keep researching."

He dragged his computer closer and rubbed his thumb between his eyebrows.

"Still hurts?" Dean asked.

"I'll live."

"Take one of my pills."

"No, you need those." Sam said. He didn't look up from his computer.

"I've got enough."

"There's never enough of the good pills."

"Just take the damn pill, will you?" Dean snapped. He pushed himself to his feet and limped more than shuffled over to his his bed and the bedside table. He picked up his bottle of painkillers and held it out towards Sam.

"Okay?" His voice was calmer, concerned even.

Sam looked over at him, but only shook his head.

"C'mon, that head's got to be bad." Dean shook the bottle. "Sam? Okay?"

"Dean -" Sam rested his head in his hand. He couldn't tell him. He wanted to tell Dean how this was all on him, on Sam, and he wanted to tell Dean how he was going to take care of it. But he couldn't tell him because Dean wouldn't understand. He'd yell and punch and storm off and really, the only thing keeping Sam going right now was Dean. So - if, to keep Dean, he had to keep him in the dark, he would.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks." He said and Dean shook a pill out and set it on the table in front of Sam. Then he got a glass of water and set that on the table too.

"I'm going back to bed for awhile." He said, turning away, not waiting to see if Sam took the pill. He sat on his bed. "You should too. Like you said, nothing we can do right now."

"I can research." Sam sighed out. He stared at the pill and the water but couldn't decide if he wanted to take it or not.

"The research'll still be there in a few hours."

Sam pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to take the pill and lay down and go to sleep. But he couldn't. He couldn't. He had to research. He had to find something. He had to do something. He had to save Dean.

"I've lost enough time already." He said from his behind his hands. He expected - or maybe just wanted - Dean to say something. Tell him again to take the pill, to rest. But Dean didn't say anything.

Fine. Whatever. Tomorrow Sam would take Dean to Bobby's. He'd heal better there. Better and faster. All the effort and details Sam had put into making this motel room fit for Dean had come to nothing; he didn't think Dean had noticed even one thing he'd done. So he'd take him to Bobby's.

He'd take Dean to Bobby's and get back to the job of trying to save the world. He'd do it alone. He could do it alone. As long as Dean was safe, Sam could do anything he had to. He'd take Dean to Bobby's. Dean obviously didn't want to be with Sam, so he'd take him to Bobby's because all that mattered was Dean, protecting him, getting him well, keeping him safe.

That's all that mattered.

He dropped his hands just enough to gulp down the painkiller with some water and yank his computer closer. He didn't look at Dean, he tried to concentrate on the screen and the keys, tried to get even a little bit of research done, but the pain seared behind his eyes, blurring his vision.

He blinked up, over the top of his computer. And blinked again at what he saw. Dean had pulled all the blankets off of Sam's bed and was spreading one of the thrift store quilts over the mattress. The quilts Sam had bought to soften Dean's bed. Dean had pulled one off of his own bed, and was giving it to Sam.

Then Dean tugged the blankets and pillows back into place on Sam's bed, and back into place on his own. Without saying anything or even looking at Sam, laid back down on his own bed and pulled his jacket over his shoulders.

Sam stared at the beds. He stared at the beds, and at Dean.

He closed down his computer and laid himself down on his bed and went to sleep.

The end.