Previously appeared in Chinook 8 (2007), from Black Fly Press

Imperfect
K Hanna Korossy

"This is not funny," Dean complained.

"Oh, actually, it is." Sam couldn't seem to stop grinning, which of course just made his big brother more annoyed. But that was sort of the point. "Man, you should have seen yourself—you're trying to get her out of the way of the troll, she's smacking you with her purse…"

"That wasn't a purse, that was freakin' luggage," Dean muttered, slamming the Impala's door with more force than necessary. He spared his baby an apologetic look, then glowered at Sam again as they headed back to the motel room door. "What is it with old ladies and me, anyway? I don't deserve this, I'm a nice guy."

Sam smiled at him. "You are the bad element, and they know it. You're the guy they warned their daughters about."

Dean's face lightened at that. "Yeah? Their daughters? Huh." He seemed to be considering that, and liking the thought.

Sam rolled his eyes as he preceded Dean into the room and headed for the coffeepot. "You know, you could have just yelled at her to get out of the way. How bad is your arm?" He poured a cup and then turned to watch Dean.

His brother rubbed the limb in question and shook his head. "Just a scratch. Don't worry about it." He flopped down on the bed, threw an arm over his eyes. "She was an old lady, Sam—they don't move that fast."

"So you had to throw yourself in between her and the troll." Sam shook his head, all exasperated fondness now. "You know, you're not responsible for every person out there. You don't have to save them all."

The answer was a long time coming, long enough that he thought Dean had dozed off. Sam was just turning toward their bags when he heard the curiously subdued admission. "I haven't."

Sam looked back at his brother curiously. "Haven't what?"

"Saved everybody."

Sam crossed with his mug to sit on the edge of his own bed. "We can't save everybody, Dean, you know that," he said gently.

Dean's head rolled against the pillow in denial, his eyes still covered, which Sam figured was the only way he could be this honest. "I didn't even try."

He frowned, not understanding. "What? What're you—"

Dean sat upright in one smooth motion, feet over the side of the bed, facing away from Sam. His shoulders were bowed, his words low, confessional. "Mary Ann Metcalfe. I let her die, Sam."

Sam went cold, but it was with concern for his brother, for the obvious weight of this burden he must have been carrying, rather than for what he'd said. "What are you talking about? How, Dean?" Sam asked.

Dean took a breath. "While you were at school. Dad and I were hunting what turned out to be a waheela. It was killing people, taking their heads. Mary Ann was just out hiking, wrong place, wrong time. She was ten feet away from me when it jumped her, Sam. She was probably dead already, but I just…I stood there and let it take her." His voice sounded as distant with memories as his gaze probably was, fixed on the wall in front of him.

Sam took a shaky breath, Dean's tone sending unhappy shivers up and down his spine. But the words…he wasn't quite ready to think about the words yet. "Why?" he asked numbly.

Dean half-twisted back then to look at him, eyes dark, opaque. "I was tired. Sick of everything. Figured I wasn't doing a lot of good, so why even try? I didn't feel like trying to save her."

"What?" Sam stammered. Of all the answers his brother could have offered, he hadn't been expecting that one, and it stirred up a sick feeling in his gut. He didn't feel like it?

Dean's matter-of-factness faltered, giving a glimpse of what looked like misery beneath. "It was too much, Sammy," he whispered. "You know what that's like."

Sam was shaking his head. "No." He was misunderstanding, or Dean was on a guilt trip. No way had his older brother, the hero of Sam's life, just said he'd stood by and let a woman be killed because he didn't feel like helping her. Sam shot to his feet, plowed a hand through his hair. "No, I don't. When it got to be too much for me, I left, Dean, I didn't kill—"

The haunted look was wiped away so quickly, Sam doubted it had even been there. Dean gave a bitter laugh. How had the mood in the room changed so quickly? "Truth hurts, doesn't it? I guess I don't win the knight-in-shining-armor trophy. Disappointed in your big brother?"

More than that. The foundations of his world had just shifted, and Sam stared at him in blind disbelief. Dean often took guilt on him he shouldn't, and there was probably more to the story he'd just told. But his demeanor was chilling. The obvious relief at finally having shared his secret, the defiant body language as he awaited Sam's reaction, the rebellious look in his eyes that dared Sam to judge him. The despair he thought he'd seen before was completely gone.

Sam moved a little unsteadily, reaching for his bag.

"Taking off again?" Dean asked with cynical softness from behind him.

"I'm just…" Sam shoved his clothes in the duffel. "I need to get out of here for a while."

There was a long silence after that, Dean not even protesting. God, how Sam wished his brother would fight him on this, but all Dean finally asked, in way too neutral tones, was, "Are you coming back?"

Sam straightened but couldn't manage to look at him. I let her die. So this was how betrayal felt. "I don't know," he admitted quietly.

Dean didn't say anything to that.

He was still sitting in the same spot, in the same silence, when Sam finished packing and glanced around the room.

"Take some weapons."

It was good-bye. Sam shoved his handgun and axe and one of Dean's knives into his bag, and opened the door, hesitating. Turning back, because he really, really didn't want to do this. "Dean…"

"You said it yourself, Sammy," and his brother's voice was cold on the name in a way he never had been before, "you can't save everybody."

"Can't, or won't?" Sam asked.

He got no answer. Sam squared his jaw and left the suffocating room and the person he'd thought he known behind in it.

00000

He had no idea where to go. Dean was his direction, his home. Sam felt absurdly like a runaway kid.

Except, this was no minor act of rebellion. This was… Sam groaned; he didn't know what it was. Escape, maybe, because he would have drowned staying in that room any longer.

Sam hit the main street and started walking.

Not that he expected, or even wanted, Dean to try to save the world. His brother always took the responsibility of their job too seriously, often risking himself to save others. There were times Sam would have given a lot to widen Dean's self-preservation streak. But while he didn't want Dean tracking down every danger out there and throwing himself in its path, Sam fully expected him to act when the danger was right in front of him. It was one of the constants of his life, Dean's altruistic protectiveness. Especially of Sam, but also of all the innocents out there Sam represented. Dean was a guardian.

Who'd let a woman die in front of him.

I let her die. I didn't feel like helping. The words just felt so wrong. Like Sam had just been told the Earth was flat.

But he knew his brother—or at least knew how to read his brother, because apparently he didn't know Dean as well as he'd thought—and could recognize when he wasn't being completely honest. And he had been. He'd gotten tired of the hunt, maybe gotten tired of Sam's absence or their dad's presence or both, enough to grow selfish or just uncaring and let a person die. It was, in their world, as bad as having killed someone themselves, and Sam was heartsick at the thought.

A car pulled up, two young women peering out cheerfully at Sam. "Need a ride?"

Sam glanced over at the beautiful brunette driver. Dean would have loved her. The offer was temping but…he wasn't ready to leave town just yet. To leave Dean, not that permanently. Getting out of the motel was one thing. Taking off on him—I let her die—Sam needed to think about first.

He shook his head and smiled his appreciation. "No, thanks, I'm okay."

Yeah. Right.

00000

He walked until his legs burned, and ended up in a little motel directly across town from where Sam's rekindled partnership had crashed and burned. He got a room with a credit card in the name of one of Dean's beloved classic rock musicians, and dropped on the bed without bothering to unpack or change.

But sleep was a long time in coming.

Dean had let someone die, had practically killed her with his inactivity, and that was still hard for Sam to wrap his head around.

But.

Dean was human. Imperfect. Hurt by the loss of his mother and by their lifestyle and Sam's departure more than Sam would ever really know, although he had some idea. And the death of the woman clearly weighed on Dean's conscience. He'd even remembered her name, and confessed his culpability to Sam even as he'd dared his brother to blame him for it. Maybe because he blamed himself so much already. But was what he had done really that unforgivable?

No, not unforgivable. But something Sam could live with?

He turned over restlessly in the bed, burying his arms under his pillow.

Maybe he was just pouting. Throwing a temper tantrum that Dean had sullied Sam's image of him as imperfect but always trying, heroic. It was the kind of little brother thing he'd been prone to when growing up, when Dean took their dad's side or got hurt or wasn't as enthusiastic about Sam's dreams as he'd wanted Dean to be. Cutting and running: it was the less appealing side of Sam's nature and he knew it, especially now that he was aware how much it hurt Dean.

But. There were a lot of buts.

But this was serious. Practically manslaughter. How was he supposed to forget or ignore that?

But it was Dean. Who'd saved more people in his twenty-seven years than Sam could count.

But who hadn't saved one he should have.

But who would cut open an artery for Sam without hesitation. Who loved him more than anyone in Sam's life did, or probably ever would.

And whom Sam loved fiercely in return, only now starting to realize how much.

And whom he'd just walked out on because Dean had risked sharing an unsavory truth with him and turned out to be fallible.

And whom he still respected, despite that knowledge. And, God help him, missed.

Somewhere during the night, argument turned to reason. As soon as dawn streaked the sky outside, Sam reached for his cell phone.

It rang five times before going to voicemail.

Sam winced. He'd cut Dean off; he couldn't really blame his brother for returning the favor. Sam rolled out of bed and reached for his duffel. A change of clothes and he was out of there. Shower and food could wait until after he'd talked to Dean.

After he'd apologized.

Heart painfully lightened at the thought, Sam hurried to get dressed.

00000

Walking was too slow when you were running to instead of from. There were buses that crossed town, but something in Sam whispered he might need a car. It turned out there was a rental office down the street, and a half-hour later, Sam was heading back the way he'd come.

He hadn't…exactly…reconciled with Dean's revelation yet. An innocent's death was a serious offense, and he wanted to know more details, to understand what he could before he forgave what he couldn't. But he could forgive, Sam was certain. If he had any hope at all of Jess and his mom forgiving him for his part in their deaths, for Dean's forgiveness for repeatedly taking off on him, for the good of his own soul, how could Sam hold a moment of weakness against someone he loved? He was many things but he wasn't a hypocrite, and wasn't about to start now.

Besides, he wanted so badly to wipe off the despair he knew he'd glimpsed in Dean's face before he'd left. Maybe Sam was being selfish again, but he needed his brother, and needed him mended.

Even a dozen miles was a long way when you were alone and had to be some place.

The sign finally appeared in the distance, the No-Tel Motel. An offer they obviously hadn't heeded. Sam sped up a little, crunching gravel as he turned into the parking lot.

The Impala-free parking lot.

Sam frowned, unsurprised but unhappy. He drove up to their door without hesitating. One good thing about walking out in a snit was that one didn't tend to tie up all the loose ends, such as turning in the key. Sam already had his in his hand as he got out of the car and went up to the door.

The room was empty and much as he'd left it. Dean's bed looked untouched; Sam's was as rumpled as when he'd launched himself off it. His mug, still half-full of congealed coffee, sat on the nightstand. The laptop glowed on the table, and Dean's journal sat next to it, open.

Sam gravitated toward it, once more pulling out his phone and absently calling up Dean's number as he leaned down. He reached voicemail just as he started reading the page the journal was open to, and Sam clicked the phone off and put it away without a glance.

La Llorona. The weeping woman gazed up at him from the pages, older notes supplemented with newer ones from the Woman in White they'd faced in Jericho and the llorona who'd nearly drowned Sam a few months later.

Sam's disquiet grew. They'd been in town for the troll, not a weeping woman, and there was no reason to think there was one in the area. Maybe Dean was just doing a little reminiscing and thinking of his own, but as Sam stirred the laptop awake, it came up to a regional map of the area. No, he must have heard something around town because Dean was hunting. Alone.

Sam chewed his lip as he studied the map. There were only two lakes in the area, and the llorona would have gravitated toward one of them. But one was on the edge of town, part of a local park, and probably frequently visited. The other was north of town and more isolated, surrounded by trees and some hills to the west. That was where she would want to take her prey. And Dean would know it.

Sam ran back out to his rented car and pulled out onto the road, absurdly wishing he had AC/DC blaring in accompaniment.

00000

It took longer to find Dean than it did the Impala.

The car was secreted exactly where Sam would have guessed, driven off the dirt road into the relative shelter of a stand of trees. Sam barely spared it a glance, just picked up the trail in the thin layer of cracked, frozen snow. It showed clear footprints going into the trees.

Sam cursed under his breath, wishing he knew how long ago Dean had come that way—early enough that frost had filled the prints—and set off in pursuit.

But amidst the trees, there was little snow on the ground, and the trail became harder to read. Sam finally gave up and fished out his compass, heading for the lake instead. Dean would have gone there first, and if he'd gone back into the woods from there, maybe there'd be another trail to follow.

The lake was half frozen, slabs of ice crowded along the shore. The surface cracked and bobbed, and Sam wondered briefly how cold it would have to get to thwart La Llorona. She needed water to drown her young victims in. On the plus side, there weren't any obvious open spots where a body had gone down. On the minus, the whole thing was a broken mess, and if anyone had slipped under the ice, they wouldn't have gotten out easily.

But there were tracks. Or rather, scrapes and gouges and drag marks in the snow and frozen grass, and Sam turned away from the water and started calling.

"Dean!"

His voice echoed in the leafless forest, loud in the silence.

"DEAN!" Sam tried again, then started following the rough trail. One set of prints, still Dean's, heavier. And, Sam's heart sank as he looked closer, they were lined with ice, as if each step had frozen after him. As if he'd been wet.

Sam hurried as fast as he could without risking losing the trail.

He nearly passed the bush, not giving the scrub a second glance until Sam realized the uneven steps ended there and went no further. He crouched down beside the shrubbery and carefully bent branches aside.

He saw the girl first.

No older than five, she looked even smaller wrapped in Dean's jacket and curled against him. Her face was white under the frosted dark hair, her lips blue, but tiny puffs of cottony air proved she was still alive. Sam flinched and reached for her, trying to pry her away from his brother's grasp.

Because Dean was wrapped around her, looking about as bad as she did as he slumped with her against the bush. His face twitched at the intrusion, and finally green eyes slitted open to stare at Sam.

"Dean," he said gently, "let her go."

Beyond comprehension, Dean tried to pull her in even closer. As Sam clenched his brother's hand, trying to loosen its grip, the icy skin made him wonder again how long Dean had been out in the elements, apparently wet, if the ice in his hair was any sign. In fact, the only thing dry on the pair seemed to be Dean's jacket.

"Dean, it's okay, it's safe," Sam tried again, and pried loose rigid fingers. "Give her to me."

Dean made a sound that sounded suspiciously like anguish and twisted Sam's heart. But he kept pulling, insistent, until the girl came free. Sam took off his own body-warmed jacket and replaced Dean's with it, draping that back over his brother.

There was no way he could take them both out at once, not with Dean's level of awareness. Feeling a little anguished himself, Sam glanced around the trees, looking for some way out of the decision he had to make. But there was none. The car was only a few minutes away; Dean would be okay until then. He had to be.

"I'll come back for you, Dean," Sam whispered, and began to shrug backward, out of the brush, the girl snuggled against him.

And suddenly heard Dean's murmur.

"Sorry…sorry…m'sorry, Sammy." It was just a slur of sound, like a whispered mantra. Sam wasn't even sure Dean knew he was there.

He swallowed hard, reaching down to squeeze his brother's cold hand. "It's okay. Dean, I'll be right back, I promise."

The trailing whisper continued as if he hadn't spoken, though Dean's hand might have moved feebly in Sam's grip.

Sam forced himself to let go, stand, and run.

He noted landmarks as he ran past them, crunching hard through the brush to make his own trail. Knowing where he was going, he made good time back to the car, and within five minutes was settling the little girl in the back seat of the Impala. Farther away from the heater because there was a danger in rewarming too quickly, but he put it on high to suffuse the car by the time he got back.

Sam grabbed a blanket and headed back into the trees.

Dean was exactly where he'd left him, silent and still now. "Hey, Dean, I'm back. We're gonna get out of here now, all right?" Sam lugged him out from under the brush, hugging him close in an effort to impart at least a little warmth into the cold body, then wrapping the blanket around him to trap it. Sam levered Dean over his shoulder and, with a grunt, got to his feet.

This trip was slower with his much heavier burden, and the breathy moans Dean gave at every lurch weren't helping. But that meant he was still alive and somewhat responsive, and Sam hadn't seen signs of frostbite in any of Dean's clamping fingers. He clung to that. Dean was just…very cold.

At least that Sam knew how to fix.

The car was warm by the time he eased Dean into the front seat, and Sam turned the heat down. "We'll get you comfortable soon, Dean, okay? Hang in there." He knew he was talking for himself, Dean stiff with cold and unresponsive, but maybe something would get through. Sam slid in on the other side, then angled Dean toward him, pressed as much against his side as Sam could manage and still drive. Dean's hair melted cold rivulets down Sam's throat and his skin was ice. Sam ran a hand up and down his arm, trying to rub a little warmth and circulation into his brother.

The hospital wasn't far. Sam whispered an apology to Dean before he slid out, shutting the door as quickly as possible to keep the warm air in. He fished the girl out from the back, cuddling her close, gratified to see a small flush of warmth in her cheeks. Dean had buffered her against the worst of the cold.

"Please, I need some help!" he called as he went inside, and was soon surrounded. Injured kids always created a reaction in a hospital, Sam could remember from experience. Their dad had had to carry in a limp Dean a few times, Sam trailing anxiously behind.

In the crush of help, Sam slipped back outside without being noticed. He had an adult version of an unconscious Dean to deal with now.

The older Winchester was stirring by the time they reached the hotel room, or at least shivering harder. Dean's body was finally fighting to rewarm. It was good news, but it also meant he was starting to feel again, and the needles of returning sensation made him twist and groan. "Hey, take it easy," Sam chanted, trying to figure out how to move him now, and finally yanked his brother up by the belt to half-walk, half-tow him inside.

Countering hypothermia was a drill he'd performed a few times and knew well. Sam explained every step to Dean as he did it. Turn the heat up. Warm the water bottle. Strip Dean down to his shorts, even though his brother threatened to shudder right out of Sam's grasp. Bury him under covers, adding the water bottles and some radiator-warmed washcloths at strategic points: neck, armpits, groin. Then strip and climb in with him for the intimate sharing of warmth. It was the best way to rewarm a hypothermia victim, and one reason Sam hadn't left his brother at the hospital, too.

"Sorry. I know this isn't what you had in mind when you said you wanted me back," Sam said wryly. He pulled Dean close, chest to back, and gently chafed his arms, chest, sometimes down his legs. "I'm just gonna warm you up a little, all right? When you can start making jokes about it, I'll stop." But it was too clinical and urgent to be embarrassing, especially when the overly slow respirations of a freezing nervous system were giving way to the fast, moaning breaths of awakened nerves. Dean was shaking so hard that his head and limbs knocked against Sam, his teeth a loud chatter. Sam just wrapped him a little tighter. He himself had cooled enough from the sharing that his own teeth clacked faintly together, but there was no danger there, only discomfort he willingly accepted.

Dean's shaking finally seemed to peak, then started to wind down. His skin still felt cold, but his pulse was close to normal, his panting deepened and slow. He was quiet again, thank God, the worst of the pain apparently passed. Faint color painted his cheeks, and his fingers flexed when Sam rubbed them. He gave them a brief squeeze.

"Sammy?"

It was merely a breath, and sounded uncertain. But it didn't escape Sam that even though Dean had to be exhausted, he'd gone for the two-syllable version of Sam's name. The one that was a family endearment alone. Sam smiled against the damp hair. "Yeah, Dean, I'm here."

"Don' leave."

It was just the hypothermia, Sam tried to tell himself. Dean's mind was addled, and he wasn't himself or he never would have begged. But it didn't make it any easier to listen to. "I won't, Dean," he swore. "I'm not leaving."

"S-sorry."

He hated the apologies the most. "Shh. Go to sleep."

"F-freezin'. Roll up th'windows, Sammy."

There, that sounded better. "I will," Sam promised. "Try to relax and go to sleep."

"Cold," came the petulant complaint, but Dean settled, growing heavy and loose. His muscles still occasionally spasmed, but he seemed to be beyond feeling now, head rolling against Sam's shoulder.

He finally extracted his arm from under Dean, just the one draped over him now to keep contact. It was the middle of the day, but between the lack of sleep the night before and worry over Dean and the chill he'd absorbed from his brother, Sam was worn out. Sleep dragged at him, and he fought it until he felt Dean slip even more deeply under, comfortably resting now.

Then Sam rested his cheek against the mostly dry hair, and let himself drift off.

00000

Dean had roused somewhere along the way to stumble out to the bathroom, and Sam had followed his progress by ear in half-sleep, making sure he was okay. When Dean slid back in under the covers, now keeping to the far side of the queen bed, Sam's mouth quirked and he slipped back to sleep.

He roused again to the setting sun, in the turned-around way they lived. Dean was still out, no sign remaining of his earlier hypothermia, sleeping deeply and easily.

Sam rolled on his back to stare at the ceiling and think.

"Kendall okay?"

The rough voice wasn't as much of an interruption as it should have been. Some part of him had noticed when Dean's breathing changed. Sam turned on his side to face him. "The little girl, right? I don't know—I dropped her off at the ER. I think so. We can call them."

Dean inhaled, turning his head so that it rested on one folded arm, face crushed into the pillow. "I screwed up, Sammy."

He waited, not sure which time Dean was talking about.

"You'd think I'd have learned after that llorona almost got you, but I heard about Kendall missing, and the llorona was just pulling her under when I got there, and I couldn't…" He suddenly snorted. "Well, I guess we both know I could've."

"You did the right thing," Sam said softly. "She's alive because of you."

"Yeah, sometimes even I get it right," Dean muttered, and pushed himself up with difficulty against the headboard. He eyed Sam, and the rumpled bed. "Missed having someone to cuddle with?"

Sam huffed as he slid out from under the covers, surprised at how weak he felt and imagining how much worse Dean was. But Dean's defenses were back in place and he'd never show it. "Right, because you were so warm and cozy this morning." Sam reached for the jeans he'd tossed aside the night before and pulled them on with tired movements. "Does it ever seem to you," Sam grew serious, "like something wants us to stay together? I mean, every time we go our separate ways, you get in trouble and I end up coming back."

"I get into trouble? Who met the crazy demon girl last time?"

Sam ignored the barb, tossing Dean a wan grin. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were doing it on purpose. I'm surprised nothing happened after I went to Stanford."

It came out half-baked, an unintended acknowledgement of Dean's hidden longing. Sam kicked himself when Dean's face lost all expression. "Didn't work," he said quietly and turned away.

That wasn't the embarrassment or maybe anger he'd expected. Sam stared at him, confused. "What?"

The dark blond head shook tiredly. "Nothin'. Never mind."

"No, what?" At the lack of answer, Sam rounded the bed. "Come on, man, I came back already. Don't clam up on me now."

Dean's eyes were red-rimmed and weary. They stared hard at Sam for a moment before deciding something and closing. "It was no big deal, Sam—I got hurt tracking a goatman after you left, and ended up in the hospital." A faint twist of the mouth. "You didn't come back then."

Sam winced. "I didn't know. I would've come, Dean, but I didn't…"

"There was no point in calling you, not like Dad would've. It was okay, Sammy, just a few busted ribs, tore up a lung a little. In-and-out in a week."

Considering they didn't even go to the hospital except for serious injuries, a week was forever. Sam shook his head, a claustrophobic fear nearly four years late taking hold of him. "Tore up your lung? That sounds pretty serious, Dean."

A dismissive hand gesture. "Well, it wasn't. Didn't move so well for a while, but I was all right."

Sam suddenly shivered, an awful suspicion dawning. "Dean…was Mary Ann right after that?"

Dean's face twitched a moment before he carefully turned his back on Sam again.

Sam stood, circled around the bed once more, sitting on the edge. "That was it, wasn't it," he breathed. "You were hunting hurt, and when you saw her being attacked—"

"I could have saved her," Dean gritted out to the ceiling. "I wasn't supposed to move but I could have." He spat a curse. "I was just so friggin' tired, Sam. Tired of everything. You were gone, Dad was barely talking to me, and I'd just spent eight days in the hospital trying to keep my story and my name straight. It took everything I had just to keep going. So I stood there and let her get killed."

Oh, God. Sam felt sick. This was his brother's horrible sin, this moment of weakness? Not of malice, not even of apathy, just of feeling weak and abandoned and weary, his hands full trying to save himself, let alone others. This was what he'd been willing to leave Dean for?

"Don't you feel sorry for me," Dean said vehemently, glaring at him now. "Not now, not then. I'm no innocent, Sam. I've broken every law there is and most of the commandments. I'm not a victim here."

"No," Sam said very quietly. "You're my brother." He kept forgetting that, to Dean, that meant he was one of only two people who could be trusted.

It was Dean's turn to look at him in wary confusion.

Sam shook his head. "Look, if it means anything…I don't blame you for whatever happened with Mary Ann. I've done a few things I'm not proud of, either, and even the great Dean Winchester has his limits."

Dean stared at him for a moment, eyes opaque. Then, "Dude, speak for yourself," he grumbled, sliding down in the bed. "And I'm fine, I don't need any of this soap opera crap." He burrowed into the blankets, then stopped, looking at Sam with painful uncertainty. "You staying this time, or did you just forget something?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "That I'm supposed to be watching your back."

Dean's shoulder hitched. "I've been interviewing a few candidates, but the job's still open." The crack was said softly, however, and the real message was in Dean's eyes, which shone. "Sammy?"

"Yes?"

"Wake me when you come back with food." He gave Sam a ghost of a cocky smile, then lay back with fatigue that didn't have to be feigned and closed his eyes.

Sam sat, watching him with amusement, until he heard Dean's breath began to lengthen. Then, when he was in vulnerable half-sleep, Sam leaned close and whispered, "You're a good man, Dean. And if you still need it, I forgive you."

"Shuddup, Sam." It was a comfortable slur, tinged with love.

"Good-night, Jerk," he answered, and earned a real if sleep-besotted grin for that.

Sam sat and watched him for long minutes, then finally stood, stretching tired muscles. He had to call the hospital to check on…Kendall? And bring his stuff in from the rental car, and pick up some food. A shower would also be heavenly. But first, he had a strong urge to re-read his brother's journal. Not just the reference stuff Dean usually pointed him to, but all the parts Sam hadn't been there for.

They still had a lot to learn from each other.

The End