Fall Back in Step

Summary: Sam wants to be able to handle it, wants to remember how to fall in step when it comes to taking care of his sick brother. And he tries, he does.

Featuring hurt!Dean, mostly in Sam's POV. Set sometime after 8x06 Southern Comfort so spoilers for that ep and Season 8 themes. Warnings for a bit of language.

A/N: Wow, this was kind of cheesy on my part. Sorry, I wanted a feverish Dean and this little angsty thing came out. Nothing really gets resolved here, just me whumping the brothers again, but I hope you likey.

A/N 2: ***THIS NOTE CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR 8x13*** Anyone else out of their mind with anticipation for this Wednesday?! I can't wait to see how they interpret the golem, considering that guy's hanging out on fanfic quite a bit in some pretty cool renditions. Also, promo photos, whumped Sammy, protective Dean…ahhhhhhhhh!

Disclaimer: I'm pretty sure the whole SPN cast would have long ago fled screaming if I did own them. Not mine!

Sam doesn't know how to do this.

That's how it's been since his brother tackled him to that rough wooden floor, in a reunion so filled with mixed emotions he's surprised it didn't tear the house apart.

They're a roller coaster, the pair of them, ups and downs every moment of every day as they soak in the comfort of each other's presence and try to push each other away at the same time, drawn together but ripping themselves apart with everything else, all the noise in their messed up lives.

Maybe it's more like a tornado, then.

Sam can't figure out what to do. He's not sure how to approach this anymore. His brother is a stranger to him, and that thought more than anything makes his gut clench and his chest pound. He wants to find the right words to say or the right actions to do, but they're lost, trapped behind a year's worth of suppression and pain and regret and guilt and—hell, he can't list them all anymore.

And maybe he's being dramatic, overly emotional and thinking too much, but when Dean flat out tells Sam he found a friggen replacement for him in Purgatory? It hurts like hell.

And he knows he's to blame for a lot of it. Dean's a lot of things, but not a cold liar, not when it comes to the important parts. And he didn't lie about Sam, about what Sam had done to him, to the world, to himself. But he wasn't alone in his faults, so he lashed back out, chewed out Dean for his judgements and added another crack in the weak bridge between them.

The anger's gone now, though. And it's replaced with longing, the overwhelming desire to have his brother back in his life again. The brother he missed for a year, the one whose memory he tried like hell to block out because any thought of him made Sam just crumble to pieces all over again.

Dean's right next to him now. He's back, out of the rabbit hole once again, and they're together again, the legacy of their ruined little family.

But the way things are right now, they might as well be on different planets.

It's disturbing, but when Dean gets hurt, Sam actually feels a little swell of happiness. He can do this, at least; he can fall back in line with taking care of his injured brother. Taught by the best, mirroring Dean's own movements, and a lifetime of knowing how to deal with a stubborn older brother, he knows how to handle this.

He has to believe that he can, that there's one niche in their shared life he can fit into once again.

But it starts out all wrong. Dean won't even let him look at the wound, insists that it's fine, and he's fine, and he can handle it on his own. Sam knows that's crap because the claw marks are on his side and that's not exactly an easy spot to stitch, but Dean's adamant. Sam's protests are met with a tense 'there were no goddamn first aid kits in Purgatory' and Sam's stuck just staring while Dean eases himself into the front seat.

Dean heads into the bathroom of the motel first thing and Sam doesn't bother to check on him, not wanting to start another fight. The first aid kit's in there and Dean knows what to do. He also knows when to say that it's too serious and to seek out help, at least Sam hopes so.

So instead, Sam watches him from a shielded distance. Tries to make sense of Dean's movements, the tone of his voice, the shift in his eyes. But after a year, some of those things he's lost sight of, all the tells and bits that make Dean the kind of person he is, are harder to pick up on. Maybe it's because so much time has passed.

Or maybe it's because Dean isn't the same person he was a year ago.

Dean doesn't deal well with fevers, despite his useless efforts to hide them from people. When Sam first notices the first bit of shivers run through his brother, his first instinct is infection and he immediately starts hounding Dean to see the wound.

Finally, all the masterful poking and prodding borne of years of being the younger sibling pay off and Dean relents, lifting his shirt with a wince to show off the newest battle scar. And it's red and inflamed, sure, but it's also got small black veins creeping out of it, and Sam very calmly lowers the shirt, tells Dean to get on the bed, and goes to the laptop to figure out what the hell has latched on to his brother. For once, Dean doesn't protest.

It's a poison, a slow moving one, not usually fatal but no picnic to go through. Symptoms vary, muscle spasms and cramps, headaches, seizures, nausea, delusions all possibilities, but what's sure to come is a fever from hell, nearly determined to burn a hole in the victim's brain. No treatment and no antidote, so they've got no choice but to ride it out. Dean's not saying much, just nodding and compliant, head already fuzzy with fever.

Sam, on the other hand, is mentally preparing himself for the long haul. He wants to prove to Dean that he is there for him, that he can do this, that they can get through things like this together. He's trying like hell, and forces himself to suppress all thoughts of panic or worry in favor of calm collectiveness.

He goes out and stocks up, trying to remember to grab everything he could possibly use for whatever the poison decides to toss their way. He gives himself a mantra to follow, and walks back into the motel room ready to go.

He can handle this.

Day one after the wound goes black, and Dean's well in it at this point. His face is flushed, and he's definitely much hotter than he should be, but it's alright, because Sam can handle it. He knows how to handle it.

The day passes. Dean's face goes from a deep red to a pale white, and he's shivering despite the mounds of covers piled on top of him. Sam had tried to pull them off and had received a fist in the face for his trouble. Now he's in the background, keeping a close eye on his brother and waiting for him to fall asleep so he can yank the covers off and hide them until Dean's fever goes down. Of course, the stubborn jackass will probably just crawl into Sam's bed instead.

Night falls upon them slowly. Dean won't speak, and Sam doesn't know if it's the fever or pain in his throat or just plain stubbornness. He lays cool compresses on his brother's head and is surprised when they aren't shaken off.

He tries to stay awake and focused, keep an eye on his brother, give him fluids and ice and a pat on the head when he needs it, but sleep has been chasing him for quite some time and finally he gives in, head dipping forward to rest on his chest.

He's woken by a change in the air. It's still nighttime, and Dean's still in bed but something's different. Something's wrong.

He leans forward to get a better look at his brother. Dean's breaths are coming in short, painful gasps, his eyes fluttering just this side of open and nothing but whites between his lids. He's shivering and twitching and looks all manner of unhealthy, but Sam is calm. He can handle it.

The thermometer gets tucked into his brother's ear, and when the reading comes up, Sam calmly goes to the bathroom and starts the bath, tepid water splashing into the tub. He doesn't bother waking his brother because with a temp like that he's not likely to be very coherent. But it's okay, because Sam can manage it.

Dean squirms as he's lowered into the water, icicles hitting his firey skin. He doesn't know what's going on, not really, and he doesn't like this new hell he seems to be subjected to. First he was hot, so hot, and now he's drowning in a sea of cold. He can feel his brother somewhere, but he's distant, muted.

Sam washes his brother as best he can, ignoring the whimpering protests that fall from the elder man's mouth. He pulls his brother out of the tub and quickly dries him off, superior strength coupled with the illness stopping his weakened brother from twisting away even though he tries to.

His skin is cooler, not much, but a little, and Sam settles him back down onto the bed gently, and resumes his post in the chair, more water bottles and ice packs at the ready, hands prepared to smooth out the muscle cramps that have been striking every few hours.

He can handle it.

Dean wakes up crying, sobbing and having trouble catching his breath, fever soaring again as he's lost in a delusional world Sam has no hope of reaching him in. The tub is filled again and Dean is washed again but the fever doesn't fall as low as it needs to and Dean still can't figure out where he is or why his brother isn't around to help and he continues to sob as his brother holds him, trying to comfort the man from his own personal hell created by the sickness that seems determined to take him down.

Dean cries out for someone, but it sure as hell isn't for Sam and he tries to pretend that that doesn't tear a hole right in his chest, so he just puts him back to bed and covers his quivering body in ice again, whispering soothing remarks in his ear again and again as Dean tries to endure the torture. And Sam massages the tight muscles on his shoulders as they shake and spasm, and tells himself that it's okay, he's got it, Dean will be okay.

Then morning comes and all is quiet. Dean has finally fallen into a deeper sleep, moans and tears ceased for the time being and Sam lets out a breath. He rubs his hands over his face and goes to the bathroom to freshen himself up.

He comes back out and checks on his brother. The fever's still there, still trying to burn a hole in Dean's body and brain, but Sam knows he can handle it.

Until noon comes around and Dean starts seizing, jerking around uncontrollably on the bed as his eyes roll around in their sockets, and when he vomits in his own mouth and starts to choke and Sam has to turn him on his side and Dean's seizure lasts over six minutes, then Sam thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can't handle it anymore.

He doesn't know what to do. He wants to toss Dean in the car and drive them to the nearest hospital, but then what? Hi doc, would you be so kind as to figure out a treatment for a supernatural poison that's trying to fry my brother from the inside out?

He can't go to a hospital. He can't go to Bobby because the man is dead and gone. He can't call anyone because he left the life for a year and any contacts that were still alive he'd abandoned, left them to fare for themselves far away from the Winchester curse.

Except…except maybe the one hunter who didn't resent them. And Sam cringes as he lets go of his brother to grab his phone. The call is short and thankfully to the point, Garth promising to have a medical man swing by in the next few hours to drop off supplies for them, and Sam feels overwhelming gratitude for the quirky man.

He keeps changing the ice packs, checking his brother's fever, and pacing around the room as he waits for the knock on the door. He checks his brother's eyes, and they're glazed over, pupils unequal. Dean's not home, for sure. Sam frantic, all vestiges of the calm mask he's set in place for the past few days shattered to hell.

Dean has another seizure before the doctor finally shows up, and at this point Sam has lost all pretense of being able to handle this. The man doesn't offer much comfort, just brings by supplies and heads in to take a quick look at Dean. He checks his vitals, the site of the wound, and all the while lets out little tsks that have Sam wanting to wring the little guy's neck. He finally backs away from Dean and turns to same, solemnity etched into his face.

Sam listens as closely as he can, one eye on Dean. The doctor talks about the possibility of brain damage since Dean's fever has been so high for so long. The wound does appear to be healing, though, no longer pushing through more poison, so now it just needs to run its course. He tells Sam the seizures were more warning signs than anything else, but Dean's fever has to get down or his body will give out. Then he inserts an IV into Dean's arm and leaves, with directions for each medication he needs to be given and a clipped 'good luck'.

Sam resumes his post beside his brother, exhaustion both physical and mental slamming down on him. He wants so badly to not have to go through this alone. He'd give anything for his brother to be just a little bit with him, just lucid enough to crack a joke or a smile or something.

But he doesn't. He just lies on the bed, the occasional thrash or whimper interrupting the silence, and the painfully huffed out breaths offering a cadence for Sam to keep the time by.

Two more hours pass and the meds haven't kicked in yet. Dean's still a silent fireball and Sam can't deal with it anymore. He leans over and puts his hands on his brother's shoulders and shakes him, begging for him to wake up and talk, help, do or say something.

But he doesn't. Sam's alone on this. He's losing Dean again, and is facing the emptiness alone, again.

He sure as hell can't handle this.

He wakes up with a start, not even realizing he had fallen asleep in the first place. His hair is a mess, covering his eyes, and he shakes it away, recognizing the soft bedcovers he's laying on as Dean's.

His heart pounds in his chest as he looks up at his brother, dread overtaking him when he sees that Dean is completely still. A chorus of No No No No No resounds in his head until he leans forward a bit more and sees the minute breaths he's taking. With shaking fingers Sam grabs the thermometer and gently puts it into Dean's ear. The reading comes up and Sam all but deflates. It's lower. It's gone down. Not much, not much at all, but it's down.

The thick fog of panic filling the room starts to dissipate a bit. Sam methodically checks his brother's wound, cleans it, replaces the ice packs and adds the next round of meds, finally sinking back down into the chair with a sigh heavy enough to collapse mountains. He's still tired and still scared, the awful possibility that there might not be much Dean left when this is over looming over his head. But for now Sam just focuses on the lower number readout of the thermometer, and traces the veins on the back of Dean's hands. That's enough for him, for now, the only part of this mess he can still deal with.

It's been three days since he's been able to have more than a one-sided conversation with Dean. Dean's slipped into a heavy slumber, Sam following shortly after. They make for an interesting sight, Sam having nearly toppled onto his brother as he fell asleep, mushed into the bed. He wakes up to the twitch of Dean's arm underneath his, and instantly all senses kick in to monitor his brother.

"Dean? You waking up?"

Dean's hand makes an attempt to move and manages to shift a bit on the bed. Sam takes the hand in his own and gently speaks to his brother, all manner of calm, collected inflection.

"Hey, you with me? It's me, it's Sam. You awake?"

Dean's eyelids flutter at the sound of Sam's voice.

"Dean? Open your eyes, man, come on."

His brother makes a valiant effort, but everything must feel too heavy for him because he gives up on trying to open his eyes with a resigned groan.

"Okay, it's alright. If you can hear me, then squeeze my hand, 'kay?"

It takes a second, but there's a firmer grip on his fingers that lasts a few seconds. Dean got the message, and Sam squeezes back, all comforting words and encouragement and relief that his brother's still alive. That Sam's not alone. And, god, that thought is enough to bring Sam to his knees, tension melting off his shoulders. He didn't lose his brother. Everything else they can work on, but that, right there, is the starting point.

It takes another day for Dean to open his eyes, and they are completely clouded over, nearly unseeing. Sam's patient though, and lets Dean take his time.

The third time he wakes up, Dean shifts his head from side to side, taking in his surroundings, eyes still gazed but finally seeing something. He licks his dry lips and manages a raspy whisper. Sam has to learn forward and perk his ears up to hear it.

"Benny?"

Knife in Sam's chest, again, and this time he doesn't even pretend that it's something he can deal with.

"Sorry, man, just me."

"Sam?" Dean's sweat-soaked brow scrunches in confusion. "No…"

Sam sighs, heavy and long. "Dean, I—"

"You can't be here."

"You want me to leave?"

Dean goes on, never hearing the utter desolation in his little brother's voice. "You can't…you're not supposed to be here."

Sam throws his hands up and moves to stand. "Okay, Dean, okay. I'm going."

"No…you…you're s'posed to be safe. Back there. Not here."

And realization hits him like a forty ton hammer. He doesn't know to laugh or cry because of it.

He reaches forward and clasps his brother's shaking hand. "You're not there anymore, Dean. You're not in Purgatory, you're back here. With me. Okay?"

Dean's eyes travel shakily around the room, settling at last on his brother. Finally, after days of being lost, there's clarity in them.

"Sam."

Sam lets out a breath. "Yeah, Dean. It's me. You're okay."

Dean shuffles back into the pillows and closes his eyes. "Sammy," he lets out in a sigh. Without a word, Sam pulls himself up on the bed. They're far too old to do this, but he doesn't care. He sets himself down next to his brother and clasps his hand in his own, feeling the warmth of their shoulders touch as he relaxes.

They may be a far cry from okay with each other and with themselves, but this, right here, this he can handle. This he can do.

End.