Shorter chapter, I promise.

Sam woke early in the morning. His need for rest had been desperate after last night's trials and he woke up to find that the room was still half lit from the lights he didn't bother to turn out last night, and now also from the breaking dawn outside. He sat up stiffly, immediately looking over at his brother. Dean was breathing softly and evenly into his pillow. Sam got up and headed to the bathroom. He needed to start this day right, and the first order of business was washing away yesterday. He took a hot shower, brushed his teeth mechanically, cleaned the bathroom, as his mind went over what he intended to say to his brother. He got dressed, picked up after their messiness, and waited. He made coffee, and waited.

He tried to keep his mind on what he was going to say to Dean when he woke up, instead of the horror of last night. But it was nearly impossible - the images would haunt him forever. And the sound of Dean's voice when he was going on about how he never should have done it, he's so sorry, he killed a little boy's mother and he's just like yellow-eyes - an evil monster, the source of another little motherless boy's nightmares... the tone of his voice was haunting too.

Sam wanted to feel vindicated by his brother's obvious distress, as though it proved the point that Sam was right. But there was no satisfaction in it. He only wished he could take it back for Dean. What he'd done ... it was killing him.

With any luck, that would all end today.

Dean rolled over, breathing deeply. Sam saw him wince and fold in on himself as consciousness struck him.

This would be a thousand times worse than the mother of all hangovers - Dean had literally died yesterday, and now he was gonna feel the repercussions of that. It would not be pretty. In reality, he should be hospitalized. But Dean wouldn't agree to that in a thousand years. Sam wasn't sure what he should do, maybe force him to go? He decided to play it by ear.

He walked over to the bed putting a hand on Dean's arm to wake him fully. Dean's eyes cracked open dryly, and Sam whispered, "Coffee?" It didn't escape him that he was babying Dean. He was so rarely allowed to do so, that he was fascinated by the idea of it. Dean had always taken care of Sam when he was sick, and then barreled through his own illnesses and injuries, pretending he was fine, as if to save Sam the worry. It felt good for Dean to have to rely on him for once, however twisted that was.

Dean seemed to think about the prospect of coffee for a long moment before nodding pathetically. Words would have to wait. His throat was raw, his head felt like it was full of marbles and nails, his chest was bruised, and he was pretty sure he had a broken rib. He struggled to sit up slowly as Sam fixed him a coffee. Dean was leaning his head into his hands when Sam offered the mug.

"Thanks," Dean offered, but it was low and rough and barely came out.

Sam nodded. After a long moment of contemplating the action, Sam sat down on his own bed, facing Dean, watching him closely.

"You don't have to stare at me Sam, I'm not gonna freak out," Dean croaked out sharply.

Sam wanted to bite back, but held his tongue. He had to be the level head here.

Dean winced again as he tried to breathe deeply, and made an irritated face shoving the sheets out of the way and pulling up his t-shirt to reveal the purpling bruise over the broken rib. He pressed two fingers to the area experimentally, feeling how tender it was and hissed at the sharp pain he was rewarded with.

"You were dead," Sam said, his voice frighteningly flat, empty.

Dean's eyes shot up to his.

"We had to do CPR... That's my fault," he said, motioning shortly towards Dean's injury. "I was trying to get you to breathe."

His little brother's tone of voice made Dean feel awash with guilt. How could he put his brother through something like that? He remembered the feeling of utter terror when Sam had his fist seizure in the Panic room - how he couldn't help him, how sharply Sammy's mortality came into focus. It was awful to be faced with such a thing. And here he'd done it to his little brother with no thought to how it would hurt him. He regretted it. But what can you say in such a situation? Thanks? Sorry? Nothing would be enough.

He stared into his coffee cup, the silence between them nearly choking him up. "Sam, I..." but there was nothing he could say.

After the awkward quiet following Dean's failure to communicate, Sam asked, "Were you trying to?" He didn't have to say kill yourself. Dean knew what he meant.

He answered quickly, reactionary, "No." But then he thought about how Sam could see through him, about how he owed him honesty in the very least and he amended, "I don't think so ... I - I don't know."

He saw Sam's jaw tighten.

"I didn't mean for... I feel like an asshole, man. I know what I put you through-"

"No. You don't."

Sam's eyes were hard and Dean felt like their stare would crack him open. "You're right," he tried to concede but Sam cut him off again.

"You were blue."

Dean's eyes shot to his, shocked.

"You stopped breathing. Your heart stopped. You were cold."

Dean paused a moment to take in the weight of his brother's observations. "I'm so sorry Sam."

"What if I hadn't come back? What if I'd been a half an hour later? I'd be burying you. Just like Dad just like Jess just like everyone. I'd have to be the one that found you on the floor in your own blood and vomit and tried to save you and failed. I'd have to feel like it was my fault because I walked away from you-"

"Sam, it's not-"

"No! Shut up!" He was standing now, towering and healthy and Dean was no match for it. He would have to just take it. "You are a selfish dick! You were gonna go ahead and die and feel like the victim - but it's me who got hurt! It's me who got betrayed! And now I can't even be mad at you because you're sitting there looking like someone ripped your soul out and shoved it back in broken! How could you just -" he cut himself off, feeling that he was spinning out of control. He was railing, and his brother's eyes were glassy. Dean knew what he'd done. There was no sense in rubbing it in now. Sam took a deep breath, rubbing his hand over his face. He sat down heavily on his bed. And tried again, his voice softer, "I know you're sorry."

Dean said nothing. It looked like he might be crying, but he did a good job of hiding it.

"But sorry isn't gonna make me forget last night. I have to live with that crap now, ok? And I can't even have the peace of mind of knowing it won't happen again."

Dean looked at him finally.

"You have been on the edge since Hell. And nothing's gotten easier since then. So now there's even more stuff to weigh on us. It's more than enough to scramble our brains - the difference is that I seem to be the only one who knows that. Taking a minute to assess you level of emotional disturbance doesn't make you weak, Dean. And frankly, you're long overdue."

Dean looked away again.

"I'm not saying I want to be your therapist, ok. I'm just saying...well, what I've been saying for years. You need to talk to someone. You need help working through this crap."

There was heavy silence.

Sam's voice was hard, "Do you or do you not agree?"

Everything in Dean wanted to say No. He's strong. He doesn't need help... But in his current condition, it seemed futile. He nodded Yes, not meeting Sam's eyes.

Relieved and actually surprised, Sam took a breath.

Just then Bobby came in, seeing Dean sober and upright for the first time and stopping cold in his tracks at the sight of it. Dean sat on the edge of the bed, sheets wrapped around him, looking like death warmed-over. He was still too pale, dark circles under his eyes. He looked similar to the way he had when he was supposed to die of heart failure all those years ago. His arms were folded instinctively about his abdomen, as if trying to cradle his fractured rib. From the look on his face, he hadn't even remembered Bobby was there and was now mortified by the fact. His embarrassment was only eclipsed by the utter shame of falling to pieces in front of the patriarch of their family. They'd already had this fight once before - this I won't kill me, if you don't kill you arrangement they'd so desperately hammered out in hopes of staving off each other's likely self-inflicted deaths.

Bobby shook his head and pulled out his spoils - an IV bag, some pills, gauze and other medical supplies.

"Where'd you get that?" Sam eyes the IV bag curiously.

"Passed a vet hospital on my way here."

"You stole it?"

"You bet your lima beans. Actually, I'm surprised how easy it was."

"What is it?" Dean squinted at Bobby through one barely-cracked eyelid.

"It's gonna help bring you back from the dead so shut up and take it."

Dean slouched in feigned irritation, but Sam could see plain as day it was just a cover for his embarrassment.

Bobby pulled the chair up in front of Dean, handing him the bag, "Hold this up here a minute," he demanded roughly. Dean did so with no snarky comments whatsoever in return. He kept his eyes to the floor. Sensing his humiliation and utter sadness, Bobby softened his tone. He didn't need to add bruises to an ego that was already so mangled that he'd nearly killed himself mere hours ago. "Give me your arm," Dean did so mechanically, a strange pull at his heart when he felt how gentle Bobby was being with him. John would have been harder on him, now more than ever. He'd want Dean to toughen-up. Dean swallowed the lump rising in his throat.

Bobby saw it. So did Sam.

"If only it could cure the stupid," Bobby joked, taping down the needle Dean didn't even feel go in. Bobby got up from the chair, looking over this broken kid, and after faltering for a moment, let his hand fall to the top of Dean's head.

Dean's jaw clenched - it was a desperate attempt to keep himself together.

A heavy and severely uncomfortable silence fell over the room, and Sam recognized the opportunity.

"Alright," Sam started, as if something official were about to happen. At his tone, both Dean and Bobby, who was now retreating to the mini-fridge, looked up at him expectantly. Sam looked at Bobby then jerked his head toward the other bed. "Sit down."

Bobby rolled his eyes, but moved toward the bed just the same - Sam's tone was heavy. "Yes sir," he jibed.

"Ok look," Sam started, his voice stern and his eyes hard, "this crap stops today."

Dean and Bobby glanced at each other warily.

Sam continued, "As of right now I'm laying down a new law - Team Free Will is now officially a dry unit. As of this minute, there is no more getting shitfaced, no more popping pills. We are not gonna drink our way through what possibly little life we've got left. We're gonna deal with our personal shit the same way we deal with everything else for once in our lives - head on. We're not gonna try and drink it away. And we are under no circumstances whatsoever going to lie to each other. This is how it's gotta be or that's it. We're done. And I'm not talking call you in three days after I've cooled off kind of done. I'm talking I'm at the end of my rope and I won't stand another godforsaken minute of watching you kill yourself kind of done. We're gonna get our act together and we're gonna do it right. So we are giving up the binge drinking and the god knows what else. And this is the final word."

Silence had fallen over them once again. Sam was done speaking, but he was still hardcore in Alpha mode.

Dean could barely meet his eyes, but Sam saw his expression and knew he was worried about losing his crutch. And equally worried about losing his brother. He seemed trapped between the two. But when Sam caught Dean in his stare, Dean took a deep breath and nodded.

Bobby cleared his throat, "What do you mean 'we?'".

Sam learned from his father the importance of respecting your elders. But Bobby needed to know he was serious. No more Mister Nice Guy, "You really want to slur your way through calling me son?"

Bobby seemed put to shame by the statement. But before he could rebut, Sam cut him off, "We almost watched him die last night. He almost drank himself to death," he repeats, trying to make the sentiment sink in. Dean looked away. A flash of pain, almost imperceptible, like a wince ran across Bobby's face at the words. Sam could see that he was getting to him and kept on, "And your first instinct when it blows over is the head to the mini-bar."

Bobby looked as if the fact hadn't even dawned on him until Sam said it out loud.

"If we actually live to see old age and we're gonna be crazy, scarred-up old nutjobs then fine. They can put me away in the nuthouse in a rubber room right next to yours. But one thing I'm not going to be is an old drunk."

He turns and looks full-force at his brother, who gets caught in his stare like a deer caught in the headlights and is unable to look away.

"I will not go on one more hunt where I have to be worried about you being drunk by the time we get there. No more flasks. No more pity shots. No more, Mind your business Sam. And you better see I'm serious and believe me when I say... I'm not having this conversation again."

He holds Dean's eyes in his own until he feels Dean crack. He nods shakily, agreeing to Sam's terms. God, sometimes he sounds like Dad... Dean wonders at their similarity in tone.

Sam turns to Bobby, giving him to same no monkey-business stare.

"Ok kid," he concedes lightly. "Dry as the Sahara."

Sam breathes his first real breath in two days. A tentative solution reached to what's been bothering him down to his core. He shrugs out of his Strong-Sam stance and melts back down to Regular-Sam before their eyes.

"Maybe not that dry..." he jokes.

Dean and Bobby both smile with him. It breaks some of the tension at least.

Breakfast is a quiet affair, all three men having exhausted their minds in thinking about their current situation, thinking about last night - about all the nights that led up to last night. Bobby had brought back food, and now they sat around the motel room's little table together, their minds miles away.

Dean laughed internally at the thought that this was probably the first time the three had sat down for a proper meal together. It was ironic, he thought. Even now, as he snatched clandestine glances at his brother and Bobby, chewing away, deep in thought, he was almost glad to find himself here despite the almost unintelligible pain in his body. He could barely sit upright, let alone eat. But he did a good job of keeping his mouth shut about it. He didn't want to seem ungrateful (for the food or his life), but his body simply wouldn't allow him to chew right now, or swallow, and the thought of having to lift his arm to pick up the fork... No way.

At some point Bobby mentioned that they'd better high-tail it, due to the ruckus they'd made last night. Sam doubted that anyone in a place like this would have said anything, but he was glad to hear the sentiment out loud. He couldn't stand to be in that room any longer than strictly necessary, and he was almost comforted by the notion that maybe Bobby couldn't either. They started packing up, Dean moving all too slowly, finding it hard to keep his concentration when he was using all of his brain power to remain standing and simultaneously make it look like it wasn't hurting him to do so.

Sam and Bobby could tell, of course. Sam silently started helping Dean, getting his things from the bathroom and packing them up - picking up a few haphazardly tossed aside shirts and stuffing them in his duffel. He even grabbed the duffel for him, seeing Dean's struggle to pick it up off the bed.

It was like all of his muscles were shredded and his bones made out of jelly. Dean couldn't muster an ounce of strength. If it wasn't so embarrassing he'd have been solely horrified. His strength had never left him so thoroughly when he needed, not ever before in his life. Not like this. Now, he couldn't even lift his own duffel bag. He couldn't even bend over to pick up a t-shirt without nearly blacking out. He was scared by what he'd done to himself.

And he was relieved when Sam grabbed his keys off the table.

"Ready?" Sam asked, with an easy tone, like it was any other day. Dean was thankful for that.

Dean looked around this room that had only a day ago been the darkest place in his world, where he'd given up on himself, on everything and poisoned his body in slow motion. Now, with the door held open, sunlight shining in past Sam's enormous frame, it seemed unrecognizable. Just a normal room, with faded hardwood floors and dusty furniture. It wasn't so scary now, but still Dean couldn't wait to leave it behind.

He nodded to his brother, and Sam turned to leave. But all of a sudden Dean couldn't let him, "Sam...?"

He turned back, concerned expression lining his brow, "Yeah?"

Dean looked down at his shoes, trying to decide how he could say what he wanted to say - every Sorry and I owe you and You were right muddling together in his mind. He looked at Sam, who was staring back at him curiously, waiting, willing Dean to say what he needed to. Dean figured he should get it out as simply and honestly as he could.

"Thanks for coming back."

Sam was unreadable in that moment, silent as the honesty of the statement registered. He nodded at Dean, once again at a loss for words. He jerked his head toward the parking lot, "C'mon," and gave his brother an almost-smile before stepping out.

Dean smiled back.

He'd make it up to him, he promised himself. He'd make it up to Sam and Bobby both. Maybe one day even be able to talk through it, muster a real, spoken apology.

Dean laughed a little, Don't get ahead of yourself Winchester.

He slouched on his jacket despite the aching of his joints, and followed Sam outside into the sunlight.