Disclaimer: I still don't own Supernatural.

Warnings: Mentions of sexual assault with unsuccessful intent to rape. As it's a drugged fic, the fragmented thought patterns and general writing style is intentional. Disturbed feelings and a sense of "WTF did I just read?" may follow. You know the fics. The ones that get into your head.

Carry on.

Sam staggered through another alley, gripping the coat around him as his boots ground loose gravel against the pavement. He distantly heard the steady drip, drip of gritty rainwater from a rusted fire escape. But which one, exactly? His head whipped up in a daze, eyes searching beyond the darkness for the source of that single echoing sound.

An orange streetlight blinded him. One of his arms jerked up to shield his eyes against the wispy orb of light. When he finally looked away, white bubbles outlined with a rainbow spectrum danced before his eyes. He watched one float toward the pavement, solid as a dense cloud.

He reached out with his hand, gently cradling the phantom bubble on its decent. But then its trajectory shifted and it was floating his way, and getting closer and closer and-

Sam staggered backwards, losing his balance. The alley wall was suddenly there, between his shoulder blades, the brick pressing against him with the chill of an unwanted lover. A wetness began to seep through his jacket and then his shirt.

Rain from the gutters, he realized. Gritty with engine exhaust – and he was exhausted, he was so tired. But exhaustion escaped through a muffler and a tail pipe... Something was there, dangerously familiar to Sam, a muffling hand and another slipping below the waistband of his jeans to grip his flank and reach for his-

He lurched away from the alley wall, embracing his exhaustion, never wanting to escape it if it meant a muffler and a tail pipe. Exhaustion was warm and dizzy, all encompassing, and it was alright with him… His thoughts grew muddled for a moment, but he suddenly felt dirty having the exhaust on him at all.

His clumsy hands fumbled with the zipper of his jacket. That terrible sound made him shiver, but it was almost winter. Almost winter. The jacket fell to the alley pavement, harmlessly laying there, but it was still too close. So he took an unsteady step backward before stripping his shirts off too. A hostile breeze caressed his skin, but if bubbles outlined with a rainbow spectrum could distract him from the phantom stench of stale urine, he could forget about everything. Forget…

Sam stumbled away from those memories, losing himself in the twists and turns of the inner city maze. His path weaved from one wall to another, even when there was nowhere to turn. He stumbled, fell, rose to his feet. Mostly he ran hunched over against the cold, unable to right himself long enough to find the next turn. And he had to find the next turn, had to find it because he couldn't turn his head against the lips that sought his own or turn away from the hands that crept under his jacket, grabbing his pecks and pinching him through his shirts… He lurched for every turn, any turn. Raucous laughter, flying bottles, and the occasional shout followed him into the alley shadows.

Finally, he leaned against a dumpster with fatigue, warm garbage juice assaulting his nose and making his eyes water. There was a wetness on his face, and Sam told himself that it was only because he couldn't breathe here, as there was no air. It wasn't because something inside him burned with loss. He'd lost something. Someone. But who?

His thoughts refused to piece themselves together, and he again realized the warmth on his face. The same warmth leaked from his side and back. One of his hands felt for it to ease the numbness in his fingers. They came away crimson. Sam stared at the blood stupidly, his jaw slack. It glistened under the street light.

"Sam!"

Dizziness washed over him as he recognized his own name. That was him, but he didn't- he couldn't-

Pushing off the dumpster, Sam tried to run away. But he kicked a bottle and it hit the alley wall with a clink. Catching himself on the corner of another brick building scraped his hands. No, no, no…. the rainwater contaminated with exhaust would get inside him now, pushing into his-

He wiped his hands on his jeans in desperation. But the denim wasn't clean, it was covered in bile and beer and semen and-

He ran.

Rounding the corner, he glanced behind him to see a shadow nearing. It became the silhouette of a man with no face. The streetlight behind him cast a halo though his hair, but he had no face, and his stride was all-business and so familiar…

The hiss of steam was Sam's only warning before a scalding vapor escaped the vent ahead and burned his shoulder. Something like a pained cry escaped him before he could stop it. He couldn't keep quiet, not with their hands on him, all over him. It wasn't enough, not even with the hand over his mouth to muffle his cries, the muffler, and he couldn't fight back…

"Sammy, stop! Sam!"

There were running footsteps behind him.

He had to move, to get away, but his legs gave out and he was forced to drag himself along the ground, dirtying his stomach. He missed the bubbles, the rainbow bubbles. His muscles wouldn't pull him any farther and so he covered his head with his arms like a child, squeezing his eyes tightly…

"God, Sammy," someone breathed, relief evident in their voice as they knelt beside him. Fingers grazed his shoulder and suddenly Sam knew, he just knew. It was Dean. The realization rendered his head ten times heavier. Even with gravel digging into his cheek and shivers wracking his frame, he felt safe…

A hand rested lightly between his shoulder blades, trailing to the back of his neck. "What were you thinking running off like that, huh? What's going on? Talk to me, Sam." Fingers grazed his wrists, pulling his arms away. Hands carded through his hair, prodding, searching for anywhere he might have hit his head.

"Dean," he mumbled. "Make the bubbles come back. I don't wanna the dirt on me, I don't-" Then he was choking, and a tear trailed over his nose and down his face.

"Shhhh," Dean soothed him. "You're just a little out of it, alright, dude? If I ever see those assholes who drugged you again…" His jaw clenched protectively. "Who knows what they would've done if I hadn't barged into that dingy bathroom when I did. But then you staggered off when I was giving them a beat down. What'd you do that for, huh?"

"I'm cold," Sam slurred. The world was spinning and his stomach was lurching, even in the crisp night air.

"You were always losing your coat as a kid."

Dean stripped off his leather jacket and gently covered his back. The jacket was already warm, and smelled like cheap whiskey. "Just take it easy. They slipped you a Roofie or something." His eyebrows drew together before he brushed Sam's hair back. "Come on, we've got to get out of here. Baby is just around the corner."

Sam found himself staring at Dean shoes an instant later, before one of them disappeared and he felt hands under his arms, hauling him up. Everything tilted and his head lolled.

"Come on, Sammy, help me out here," he heard. And he tried, honestly he did, but it was as if his limbs were detached from his body. They refused to listen to him, merely hanging by his sides.

He found himself staring up at a streetlamp again, and gasped weakly when he saw the familiar wispy orb and transparent spheres. He would see the bubbles again, he would-

"Sam?" A hand cradled his face, tilted his chin, and then he was staring into Dean's eyes. They had rainbow in them too. "Sammy, try to focus, okay? Just-"

There was a curse when his legs gave out again and Dean took most of his weight. He was just so tired…

The next thing Sam knew, his back was hitting a motel bed. The sharp sting made him arch his back in pain, moan, anything to ease the pressure on the wounds he suddenly felt. They had glass in them, they had to, and it hurt, and he grunted, hand seeking his brother, seeking Dean-

A pair of hands gripped his firmly, enveloping it in warmth and strength. "Easy, Sammy," he heard. "Sorry about the drop, dude, but you aren't as light as you used to be, you know?"

One of Dean's hands gently pressed down on his chest to keep him on the bed, but he grabbed the wrist and tried to push it off. The effort left him panting, chest heaving, which was pathetic as he hadn't moved his brother's hand an inch.

"Sam, calm down," Dean said, his voice level. "Sammy."

Just like that, a calm lethargy washed over him. He slowly relaxed back into the mattress. It would be okay. He cracked his eyes open, squinting against the dim light of the lamp on the nightstand.

"There you go." Dean's hand rubbed his chest. "Just take it easy. You've already started sweating it out. No point in overexerting yourself. Here, drink some water. Small sips."

A cup floated in front of him and Sam stared at it, only mildly interested. His mouth was dry and a refreshing drink of water would soothe his throat, but the last drink he'd ingested tasted off. There was an instinct within him that refuted the idea of drinking anything else, at least for the moment.

He lolled his head to the side in refusal.

"Come on, man, you need to drink something. Here comes the choo-choo…" A cool hand worked its way behind his neck, lightly squeezing before raising his head. The lip of the cheap plastic cup was pressed against his lips, and Sam stubbornly pressed them together, but then the liquid was pouring into his mouth and he had no choice but to swallow or drown or-

He choked half of it onto his own chest and spat a sip in Dean's direction. There was a curse, and then Dean lowered his head back onto the pillow. He grabbed a towel from the nightstand, grudgingly drying Sam's chest. "Well, at least you know enough to protect yourself, even in this state. For all the good it would do."

The bed dipped as he sat down, leaning closer to examine the burn on Sam's shoulder. The combination of his body heat, tickling breaths, and gentle prodding lulled Sam even deeper into the haze. Or maybe it was the drugs. Either way, he fought to keep his eyes open as Dean grabbed some burn ointment from the kit beside him and began to dab it onto the wound. It didn't hurt so much anymore.

And look there. Sam cracked a smile as he stared over Dean's shoulder.

"The bubbles are back, Dean," he whispered with a slur. They lazily floated toward the ceiling, never quite reaching it. The rainbow outlines each grew wider and wider… he tugged on his brothers shirt, willing him to turn around and see them for himself. "Dean."

Dean's eyes were soft when they glanced up. He pulled something from his pocket. "Yeah, I see them, kiddo. You were going on about bubbles earlier. Those bastards must have dosed you with more than just a Roofie." He shone a penlight into Sam's eyes, making him whine and turn his head.

"This is easier when you're unconscious," he muttered, gently directly his chin toward the ceiling. Light. Ceiling. Light. Ceiling. "No change yet. There probably won't be until morning. Just do me a favor and don't follow any of those bubbles you see drifting around, huh? Took me long enough to track you the first time."

Sam nodded, doubting he'd be able to even if he had the will. He felt Dean take his pulse, fingers skimming his neck.

"Alright, tiger," he finally pulled away, satisfied. "I can't give you anything for… the drugs are out of your system, but I need to turn you over… at the cuts on your back. They didn't look too…"

Dean continued talking, but Sam stopped comprehending the words. He only heard syllables in the pitch of his big brother's voice. Vowels and consonants. Sentences and pauses. It was vaguely like listening to him speak another language underwater.

The motel room began to appear distorted. It stretched and lengthened around them. Sam chose to stare at a spot on the ceiling so he wouldn't get too dizzy trying to keep track of it all. Just one little spot on the ceiling…

Dean's voice grew silent, the penlight was back, and there was a comforting hand on his face. He tried to speak, to reassure Dean that everything was fine, that he was fine, but he couldn't move. There was a weakness in his muscles, a tingling sensation. He could only stare, listening and feeling…

A hand squeezed his bicep. Dean.

Time was lost in a fog, and then next thing Sam knew, his chest had been cleaned of dirt and the boots had been removed from his feet.

He felt a gentle tugging at his waist and distantly realized that his jeans were being unbuttoned. A hazy memory of what happened in the bar bathroom flashed through his mind, even though they'd never even unbuttoned his jeans before Dean saved him.

Dean saved him.

The last bit of tension melted from his mind as his zipper came down, his pants were tugged off, and the blankets were pulled up to his waist. He shivered, alternating between being too hot and too cold, as if regulating his temperature was the least of his body's concerns.

Dean leaned over him and carefully turned him onto his stomach, grunting with effort. Sam's view of the ceiling was replaced with a view of the wallpaper, a hideous pattern from decades earlier, yellowed and peeling. He allowed his eyes to close. Anything was better than that.

There was the steady sound of breathing, as if Dean were trying to calm himself. He brushed Sam's hair back from his forehead and traced one of the wounds on his back. Then his breathing grew heavier, there was a strangled cry, a sudden movement, and something hit the far wall with a thud. Dean's breathing immediately steadied, though Sam could still hear him pacing restlessly.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he whispered, apparently unaware that Sam could still hear him. "I'm supposed to keep you safe. Safe from things like this."

The bed dipped beside him. "I'm sorry, kiddo." He rested a hand on Sam's lower back, the only gesture of comfort he could offer without disturbing his wounds. There was a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, and then riffling through the first aid kit.

Sam tried to stay awake, he tried so hard, but he wasn't in control anymore. Maybe he'd never been in control. Nothing he did could fight the pull of the drugs coursing through his system or the comforting realization that he was protected under Dean's wing. So it was that as his brother patched him up, he drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

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