What Hurts the Most
K Hanna Korossy

Angels weren't good for headaches.

Sam had kinda hoped the pain would have gone away with a night of sleep; he rarely had any kind of aftereffect from exorcising anymore. But sending Samhain back to Hell had apparently taken a lot out of him, and he'd woken to the sickening throb of pressure behind his eyes. And that was before Uriel had shown up to threaten to turn him into dust. Right now, that sounded like a mercy killing.

The motel room door swung open, and Sam quickly lifted his head from where it had been cradled in his hands. Dean had barely said two words to him since the night before, hadn't looked him square in the eye since he'd watched Sam take Samhain down, and Sam had no desire to aggravate his big brother on the matter. Suck it up, Sam, he heard his dad's voice, and he did, straightening even as it made the room swim a little around him.

"You ready to go?"

Dean seemed even more skittish than the night before, his gaze skipping around the room, barely grazing Sam. He'd gone out to clean the last of the egg from the car and been gone a really long time, but neither of them seemed inclined to mention that, so Sam just carefully shrugged. "Yeah."

Dean gave a perfunctory nod and grabbed his packed bag, leading the way out of the room without looking back. Sam followed, eyes darting briefly to where an angel—an angel—had stood not long before. An angel who had all but said he was evil.

Sam's nose twitched, and he walked out, shutting the door behind him.

The car was back in pristine shape, of course, but all Sam really noticed was how bright the sunshine was, bouncing off the shiny metal. He winced against it, and as soon as he folded himself into the car, dug around in the glove compartment to find a pair of sunglasses.

One appeared in front of his nose.

He cast a sidelong glance at Dean, who seemed totally absorbed in checking the car's gauges. But the glasses didn't budge until Sam took them. Only then did Dean's hand retreat back to his side.

So much for hiding his headache.

Still, while there was tension in his brother's shoulders, Dean wasn't radiating anger as he had been the night before. If Sam didn't know better, he would have thought the glasses to be a peace offering a la Dean: no apologies, no talking about it, just forget it and move on.

Sometimes he preferred Dean yelling at him to the silence, though. Yelling meant anger. Silence was hurt and disappointment and fear, and that was so much worse.

Sam pinched his nose as he settled the glasses on it, and pressed wearily into the coolness of the car door. At least this was familiar comfort.

Dean didn't put music on, nor mentioned where they were going. South, but beyond that Sam didn't care to pay attention or brave asking about. He sunk further into the car's metal and vinyl embrace, resting his burning forehead against the glass. Empty countryside rolled by in a hypnotic blur, and Sam let it and the soft waves of pain lull him into a light doze.

"You hungry?"

He started, flinching as his skull seemed to press in on his brain with every movement. He opened his eyes just in time to see a sign flash by promising "Good Eats" at the next exit, and his body groaned as he carefully stretched. "All right," Sam sidestepped the question, and rubbed at the side of his head as if the cold glass was what had made it ache. His neck had also stiffened up, and Sam's hand curled down around it next, massaging muscles back into functioning.

He'd wondered at first if the pain that came with using his ability was a warning sign that he should heed. But saving people had always come before personal comfort; it was the Winchester way. And it wasn't like the visions had been evil. Ava had just chosen to use her powers for personal gain. All Sam had wanted to do was to save his brother from Hell, and end the Evil that had sent him there. How could that be bad?

Dean had taken the exit without another word and was now pulling up in front of a diner that looked like it was sagging in the middle. Sam swallowed a sigh and braced himself for getting out.

"Feel any better?" Dean's question was addressed to the windshield and spoken in carefully neutral tones. Much like his You okay? the night before as Sam had stood stricken and bloody in front of him.

Sam felt a little more of his spirit break under the weight of the question, as politely and blandly offered as if he were a stranger. "I'm fine," he answered back just as meaninglessly and pushed the door open to clamber out to prove his point.

He lasted three minutes at the table before he had to make a rush for the bathroom to empty his stomach. He knew because he'd counted each excruciating second.

Sam made an effort to clean up before he came out, washing away the cold sweat, finger-combing the damp hair out of his face. Only his pinched eyes gave away the headache that had ramped up to vicious levels from the retching, but he hid those behind the sunglasses. There was nothing he could do about his pallor, but his cheeks were flushed with exertion so at least he didn't look like a corpse. Even if he felt like one.

Dean was mechanically eating some sort of Dagwood sandwich by the time Sam staggered back. They both pretended nothing was wrong as Sam eased into the chair and managed to swallow the two pills sitting by his glass and a few bites of the baked potato soup his brother had ordered for him. Sensing Dean's attention on him when he pushed the bowl away, Sam muttered "carsick" under his breath.

Dean didn't say anything. Sam was really starting to loathe the quiet.

He was the one who shoved the Metallica tape into the player when they got back to the car, even though the beat instantly ramped up his nausea. Dean turned it down to a whisper and rolled back out onto the road.

The pain made Sam curl into the corner of the bench seat and will himself to sleep to escape it. He almost thought he felt Dean's hand on his forehead before consciousness dissolved, but considering Dean couldn't bear to look at him, Sam figured that must've just been a dream.

00000

"Sam?"

The unusually quiet voice took a while to tunnel into the layers of fog around his head, and just as long for him to dig out of. By the time Sam surfaced, blinking painfully even against the dim nighttime lighting, Dean had tried twice more and was starting to sound really worried.

Sam turned his head, sucking in a breath as his stiff neck made even that small motion torture. His queasy stomach lurched, and he had to work to focus on his brother's features.

"Sam, what's wrong with you?"

He swallowed, letting his heavy eyes fall shut. He'd lost the sunglasses sometime during his nap but doubted they would have helped much at that point, anyway. What was wrong with him—well, that was the million-dollar question, wasn't it? He shivered in the cool of the car and licked his dry lips. "'M fine."

"Yeah. Sure." Dean's tone flattened, the worry retreating. "Whatever, man." His door swung open, admitting a breeze that made Sam's chill worse. He cringed away from it, feeling every muscle ache in protest. "You comin'?" Dean called after him.

Sam forced his eyes open again. They were sitting in a motel parking lot, yellow sodium lights casting weird shadows. Even that seemed too bright, and Sam winced away from it all, lifting a hand to rub at his brow. How could he feel so light and so weighted and heavy at the same time? It seemed like his head was going to pop off and float away.

Dean was waiting, though, and Sam didn't want to test his patience any more than he already had. Sucking in a breath, he fumbled for the latch and pushed open the heavy door. It took another two breaths before he could swing his legs out of the car, then lever himself slowly upright. His hips had trouble unbending, the joints feeling swollen and locked, and Sam leaned heavily into the car.

"Sam?"

Dean sounded really far away. He was probably calling from inside the room. Wait too long, and he might decide he'd had enough, just shut the door and leave Sam to fend for himself. Which he could, he really could—he had not that long ago. But…he couldn't. Not now. Not when it was Dean's choice, and Sam could do something to keep his brother, and yet could barely stand, miserable and awash with pain. He needed Dean, just until he got back on his feet, at least. Then…if his brother really hated him…

Sam braced himself and took a step.

Oh, God.

His head had never hurt this bad, not even at the beginning. Maybe defeating Samhain had done some kind of damage, unlocked a door that wasn't ready to be opened. It felt like his brain was on fire, blood singing dizzyingly hot and bright in his veins. His knees only held him up because they were too stiff to buckle, and Sam fluttered a hand back, looking for the car's roof for support.

"Sam."

Dean was even farther away. Leaving him? Sam sobbed as he took a second step, pain lancing through his joints, the marrows of his bones. His heart pulsed agony through his body with every beat, and his eyes felt swollen, ready to explode. Acid pushed up his esophagus, only to be trapped in his swollen throat.

He thought maybe he cried out.

"Sammy!"

Dean faded along with everything else, and letting it all go was a mercy.

00000

He lay drifting a long time.

There were voices, distant aches, pieces of memories. He wasn't sure where he was but didn't really care because most of all there was just a gentle peace, and it was a long time since he'd had that. So, unhurried, content, he let himself drift.

Thirst was the first real sensation that registered. His tongue felt twice its normal size as he shifted it, and his lips cracked when they flexed.

Like magic, something cold and wet pushed against his mouth, and he opened up for it. Ice. It melted wonderfully, trickling down an equally dry and rough throat, and he accepted another piece.

"Sammy."

Dean was there. And with that comforting conclusion, Sam floated off again.

He rediscovered his body in disjointed pieces. The ache that had pooled in his shoulders and rigid neck being massaged out by strong fingers. A blanket being tucked around his cold feet. A cool, wet cloth dulling the throbbing of his forehead. And Dean's voice alongside it all, pulling together the scattered fragments of his mind. Patiently reassembling Sam piece by piece.

Until he remembered what had happened and why he was there.

Sam rolled his head weakly against the pillow, registering that it no longer felt like his brain would liquefy from movement. Opening his eyes was a gamble, but the lights were turned down low.

He and Dean stared at each other a long minute.

"Sam?" his brother finally whispered roughly.

Sam blinked slow, thoughts still thick like jelly. "Unfort'nately," he murmured.

Dean barked a laugh, seemingly surprising even himself, then bowed his head a moment. When he looked up again, his face had gone hard, his eyes too dark to read in the dim light. "You're a moron."

Here it came. Sam's lungs labored for breath that suddenly seemed scarce, and his stomach contracted. "Dean…"

But Dean had pushed away from the bed, a blur now in Sam's weak vision. Only his voice was clear and sharp. "You almost got yourself killed, you idiot—what did you think you were doing, huh? I mean, you're a big boy, I get it. But if you don't trust me…what're we doing here, Sam?"

His chest caved in, moisture and heat pooling in his eyes. He'd tried; he'd tried so hard not to use his "gift." But Dean sounded so disappointed, so betrayed, and Sam couldn't deal with that. He didn't want to be there when his brother decided enough was enough and walked out. Sam turned his head away before his composure crumpled all together, squeezing his eyes shut. "I lost the knife," he mumbled. "I couldn't…he was gonna kill me…Dean, I didn' want…"

"Wait, what?" Dean was suddenly on the other side of the bed, hands cool against Sam's burning face. "That's not what I—" He broke off with a curse.

Totally confused, Sam squinted up at him.

Dean looked…old. Tired. And so sad that Sam's heart constricted in empathy. He'd never wanted to do this to Dean. He was a curse, a jinx on the Winchesters. He tried to pull his head away from Dean's grasp.

But his brother wasn't letting go, gentle but solid as he forced Sam to look at him.

"That's not what I'm talking about, Einstein. You were really sick, Sam—you came down with meningitis. You've been out for most of the week—they, uh, almost couldn't help you." Dean's eyes went out of focus a moment, then sharpened back on Sam. "You should've told me it was that bad."

Meningitis? Sam stared at him, the hospital walls behind Dean finally registering in his tangled thoughts. "Viral or bacterial?" he asked automatically.

Dean blinked. "Uh…viral, I think—why? Does it matter? You nearly died, Sam."

"Bacterial's worse," Sam murmured, realizing too late he wasn't really helping his case.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, that makes me feel a lot better, dude, thanks. Sam—"

"I didn't…I thought it was the exorcism," he whispered.

"Well, it wasn't, and you still should have told me."

But…the way Dean had looked at him in the crypt… Sam's nose wrinkled miserably, and when his brother's hold foiled another attempt at turning away, he retreated the only way he could, closing his eyes.

"Sam." His cheek was patted. "Sammy, look at me."

He couldn't bear to. "Leave me 'lone."

"Not this time, man. Look at me, Sam, or I'm gonna start getting creative with the ice."

He glared up at Dean, face puckered in defiance.

"Now that's the Sammy I know," Dean said with a grin that quickly faded. He hitched himself up onto the edge of Sam's bed and let go of his face, only to prop his arms on either side of Sam's head, effectively trapping him once more. "You listen to me, Sam, and you listen good—you're my little brother. You're always gonna be my little brother. Doesn't matter what that yellow-eyed bastard did to you when you were a baby, or what you did with Samhain—nothing's gonna change that."

Sam's fortifying anger faded into uncertainty, painfully vulnerable.

"I just…" Dean's eyes darted away. "I was mad that you had to do it again, all right? I'm worried about you, man. I see how much this stuff takes out of you, and with what Cas and Dad said… But, Sammy, anything you need to do to stay alive, I can deal with. I mean it."

"Yeah?" Sam whispered.

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

Sam closed his eyes, feeling his eyelashes grow wet. "You ever sorry, Dean?"

He could feel Dean's confusion. "For what?"

"Making the deal." He didn't think he could have asked if he'd been looking at his brother.

There was a pause, long enough to make him wonder what Dean's expression was. But then Dean exhaled soft and low, and Sam felt the bed sway minutely as he shook his head. "No. Never, Sam."

Sam opened his eyes, seeing Dean's shining, honest gaze. No hiding this time, and he swallowed and nodded. It felt like steel wool was scouring his brain, and he winced but didn't look away. Because for the first in a long time, he saw his brother—really saw him—in the hazel eyes, and…that gave him hope. "Thank you." He'd never said it, unable to when the cost had been too high and Dean was going and gone, but now he could mean it.

Dean's shoulders lowered, expression shifting in ways Sam was too tired to read. "Okay, so…you all right?"

"My head hurts," Sam whispered.

Dean sighed. "Yeah, I'll bet. It's time for your meds soon—we'll talk later, all right? We're not done with this, dude."

Sam's mouth twitched, the words more promise than threat. But the throbbing in his head was starting to reach combustion level, and he gratefully let his eyes shut and his cheek press into the cool pillow. He could feel Dean pull back, still sitting on the edge of the bed

Tentatively, Sam rolled his hand over, palm up, fingers curled open.

Not even a second passed before Dean's warm hand pressed into his.

Sam gripped back tight as he anchored himself against the battering pain, hanging on until either drugs or sleep finally kicked in.

Dean breathed with him. Neither of them spoke a word.

Neither of them had to.

The End