"One shot."

"I know."

"Let's go right."

"Left's better with the terrain."

"Will you listen to me?"

"Will YOU?"

"Just...you have to make the shot count."

"I know; I'm not stupid or weak."

"I didn't say you were-"

"You DID, though, and that's what matters."

"What about what YOU said?"

"We're going left."

"Aim low."

"I know; I've hunted this before, with Dad. While you were gone off."

"You know, you've made choices and mistakes in your lifetime, too. I haven't shoved them in your face."

"Was that before or after I held you back?"

"Fine; you wanna pick apart words that I didn't actually say myself? Go for it. I'll be on the trail to the right."

"Fine."

"Fine. Dean, wait-"

"What? I'm going right."

"...Just...make sure you're ready to take the shot."

"Sammy?"

Sam glanced to the left, then shook himself. No; Dean really did look that worried. "You're staying in the car," Dean insisted, before Sam could say anything.

"Dean-"

"That's the third time, Sammy. We took the case, but you've blanked out three times, and it's...it's scaring me, okay?" Dean admitted, and Sam's gut twisted.

"I don't mean to."

Dean heaved a sigh and lowered his head towards the steering wheel. "I know you don't, but...this could be a lot of things, like...like residual damage from..." He shut his eyes tight, and Sam reached out, his grip solid and steady around Dean's shoulder.

"I'm not bleeding from my nose, I can't taste anything copper in the back of my throat, I don't have a headache...I'm just tired, like you said, and pushing myself too hard," he said. He probably really was, in all honesty. "I'll be okay, though. If it gets worse, I'll tell you."

Dean slowly raised his head slightly from the steering wheel, and Sam gave him a small smile. "You ready?" he asked.

"You're on salt duty," Dean said for the fourth time that day. "And nothing else."

Sam rolled his eyes because he knew Dean was expecting him to. Dean's shoulder relaxed beneath his hand, just like Sam had expected it to. "Fine," he said, his tone softer and gentler than it had been in his memory. He let his lips turn up and said, "You can do the digging; I'll sit back and watch your progress."

"Bitch," Dean grumbled as he moved out of the car.

"Jerk," Sam shot back, but there wasn't any anger. No sniping at each other, no heated glares, no words spit and then immediately wished back. Only a friendliness and a brotherhood that hadn't been there for awhile.

And two weeks, three days after Sam had woken up, he was still awed and amazed that it was back. That they were back.

The trunk shut, and Sam hurried to get out of the car before Dean came around to help him out. Sam closed his door and reached out just as Dean rounded the trunk, and Dean pursed his lips before, reluctantly, handing the salt over. "I'll be fine," Sam assured him. "This one's easy enough we could do it with our eyes closed, Dean."

Dean didn't answer, just started walking away, shoulders tight with tension. Angry, worried tension, and Sam wondered briefly how many other tension-filled moments of the past few months had been that way and he hadn't seen.

The case was incredibly easy, though. Only one person had really died in the house; tripped and fell down the stairs. Buried in a grave in the cemetery on the outskirts of town, and was supposedly reported to mope and groan in the house. Only two injuries, but the last one had been enough for the cops to warn people off the premises. Dean had gotten inside and done a little EMF searching, but nothing had popped. Which meant it was just the spirit in an empty house. Easy close case.

The digging took awhile. After the first five minutes, where Sam good-naturedly rubbed it in that he wasn't digging, and Dean good-naturedly replying in kind, Sam wound up just wishing he could help. As much as he'd said he'd be fine to sit it out, apparently he wasn't.

The pushing in his mind of something just out of reach wasn't helping, either.

"Hey, Dean?"

"You're not digging," Dean said, and Sam huffed, irritated. Dean stopped digging and raised his eyebrow at Sam, sweat and dirt mixing on his face. "Give me a break, Sam; I know what you were gonna ask, and the answer's no."

"Get it done in half the time," Sam coaxed, giving a bright, eager smile.

Dean just gave him a look, and Sam sunk back down to his kneeled crouch. "Fine, be that way," he mumbled, and Dean chuckled.

"You'll get your turn to shine in a little bit, Sammy. No one can do the salt like you can."

"You lookin' for me to pour it on you now?" Sam joked, and Dean tossed a handful of dirt up at him. Sam grinned and made a show of scooting back, but made sure he was still within Dean's sight.

He wasn't the only one lately who needed to be able to see his brother.

Dean fell back into the rhythm of digging, and Sam fell back into thoughtful concentration. The little snippets of his memories weren't something he'd been trying to focus on; in fact, he'd been trying to not think about them, because Dean had been right. Sam didn't want to remember. He had enough memories of them being distant, of arguing, of being so disconnected that hunting would've gotten dangerous.

And he knew that was what had happened out there. He had no memory of what had actually transpired on the hunt, but he knew the reason he'd gotten hurt. He was lucky Dean hadn't gotten hurt; it could've gone a lot worse, as distracted and out of it as they both were in the memories.

A lot of it was still hazy, too. Places were blurred, images were unclear, and words were dropped out of the conversation. But the intonation of the voices, the look on Dean's face, the feeling and emotions inside of himself? Those were as clear as a bell.

Still, even as much as Sam didn't like thinking about the memories, the curious side of him insisted on wanting to know it all. The desperation, the brokenness, the fear in Dean's voice after Sam had woken up made Sam want to cringe. Nothing should ever have made Dean sound like that. Nothing.

Bobby had suggested that he'd possibly remember on his own, maybe selective amnesia, but Dean had paled instantly, and Sam had counter-suggested that he might not, and he was okay with not knowing.

"You're okay with not knowing which direction it's coming from?"

Sam blinked, then blinked again. Dean was still digging, and didn't look any further down than before. "Did you say something?" Sam asked tentatively.

"What?" Dean panted, glancing up at Sam. "No, Sammy, I didn't; why?"

"Nothing, I just thought I heard something," Sam said with a small smile. "It's nothing to worry about."

Dean's gaze narrowed before he pointed to Sam's left. "Shotgun's loaded with salt in the duffel," he said. "Get it out; I want you armed. Just...be careful with the hold, all right? I don't want you to jerk and undo the last two weeks of healing."

"Just...watch the trees; that's where it'll be."

Dean was still gazing at him, no extra worry on top of what he already had, and Sam nodded, moving to the duffel. The sawed-off shotgun lay in the center underneath the lighter fluid, and Sam pulled the shotgun out, double-checked it, and then sat back with it across his lap. Only then did Dean start re-digging. "Almost done," he called out, and Sam didn't know who he was trying to assure more.

But he was grateful, because at this point, the something he hadn't been able to reach before was quickly becoming something very close. And at the speed it was coming at, Sam was a little worried about getting run over.

"Left."

"You take left, I'll go right."

"Dean, aren't you worried about-"

"Keep your voice down; it's got ears."

The shovel landed with a heavy clang, and Sam jumped a little, and Dean winced as he climbed out. "Sorry," he said apologetically, and Sam waved him off. "Your turn to be a shinin' star, Sammy."

Sam nodded and set the shotgun back down into the duffel, and stood, the salt in his hand. The grave was open and ready for action, and Dean had everything he needed to light it up. They glanced at each other in silent communication, before Sam turned to the bones and began throwing salt crystals.

Despite his wound, he managed to cover all the remains. The wind picked up suddenly, and Sam was already turning to Dean, the bag of salt still in his hands. "Sammy, drop!" Dean shouted just as Sam faced him, and the shotgun was in Dean's hands, aimed straight to take the shot as soon as Sam was down, and Sam's knees gave and he fell, the world blurred, because it all came flooding back.

And Sam knew why Dean had wanted him to forget.

Because they'd separated. Split up, not through mutual decision, but because they were stubborn and insistent. The ground had been dry, twigs and rocks everywhere making the terrain difficult. They hadn't watched each other's backs

and the twig had snapped underneath Sam's feet, just a tiny pressure, nothing at all like a huge creature, but Dean had turned around, suddenly appearing out of the dark foliage

with the gun in his hand, and Dean was shooting now, the shotgun going off well above Sam's head, the spirit wailing as it disappeared, except

there'd been no noise until Dean had fired the gun, had only heard the twig breaking and reacted, and Sam had felt the bullet hit deep into his side, wavered and stared at Dean with hurt and pain and betrayal and grief and shock, hand going to his side

and Dean pulled out the extra shell from his pant pocket, loading the gun again and yelling, "Sammy?" as he ran forward towards Sam, arm

dropping the gun, staring in horror and growing terror as Sam clasped his side, stumbling backwards in the few seconds after the bullet had hit, and Dean was still staring, silent and frozen in the middle of the forest, and the ground was suddenly not there beneath Sam's feet, and he flew backwards, over the edge of the ravine, to the rocks that punctured him as he rolled, the hurtling speed as he kept falling and falling, dizzy and scared and still stunned because Dean had shot him, and right before the final rock, Dean finally screamed

"Sammy?!"

Sam tumbled forward, right into his brother's arms. "I got you, m'right here," Dean murmured, his breath harsh and his heart pounding fast, reverberating against Sam's own chest. Sam felt light headed, wondering how fast his own heart was going. The world felt a little unstable, a little too bright, and Sam closed his eyes to shut it out.

"Dean," he whispered, and Dean's arms around him tightened.

"Did it touch you? Sammy, the spirit-"

"No," Sam managed to get out. "No, it...didn't."

Dean let out a shaky breath and rested his cheek against Sam's. "God, Sammy," he choked, before swallowing hard. "You scared the shit out of me. You just fell and you kept falling-"

Sam still felt like he was falling. He leaned into Dean harder, trying to ground himself with his brother. Dean helpfully pulled Sam in that much closer, and Sam wound up with his forehead against Dean's neck, all but cradled by his big brother. "Not letting go," Dean whispered, sounding a little more in control. "Swear to god, Sammy, I got you and I'm not letting go."

Sam merely shut his eyes tighter and let Dean keep him grounded.

By the time they returned to the hotel, Sam was more coherent and with it. Dean had managed to lean him against a small tree in the cemetery as he'd burned the remains, then had all but dragged Sam back to the car. They hadn't taken off right away, giving Sam some time to focus on breathing without dealing with a moving car. Dean had stayed with him, a hand on his shoulder, or a thumb across his pulse, always next to him, always keeping Sam grounded.

The door opened to the hotel, Dean helping Sam in. "M'fine," Sam mumbled, and Dean cautiously, hesitantly, let Sam's elbow go to see if it was true. Sam mustered all his strength to stay standing, and Dean finally gave a nod.

"You should lay down, take it easy," Dean said, carefully arranging where the duffel bags went. Back to the OCD clean he'd been while Sam had been healing. "I'll order something in, whatever sounds good to-"

"Nah, I'm-" Sam said, and the rest of the words wouldn't come out. Dean slowly set the bag down, eyebrows knitting in worry, and Sam couldn't do it. Couldn't lay down and stay in the room, had to breathe on his own, and he found himself turning back towards the door.

"Sammy?"

He glanced back at Dean, who was gazing at him in outright worry and concern, and these words were easier to say. "I'll be back, won't go far," he promised softly. "I just...just need to..."

And the horror and terror on Dean's face sprang to mind, clear and vivid, and Sam flinched a little, his words trailing off again. Even as Dean stared, Sam slowly opened the door and stepped outside.

His wound ached a little, a ghost reminder of the original injury. For the first time in two weeks and three days, he lifted his shirt and really looked at the wound. It was big enough that you couldn't tell there'd been a bullet in there; the rocks must've ripped him apart.

But there'd been a bullet in there. One shot by Dean.

Sam stumbled away from the door, shirt falling back down, and finally settled on the curb beside the still warm Impala. His elbows rested on his knees that still ached a little from the fall, the five second fall that had lasted far longer than that in Sam's mind. The dizzying tailspin back into clear, vivid memories of hurt and pain.

And that was all the incentive Sam needed to rest his head in his hands and stare at the gravel of the parking lot.

It wasn't Dean's fault. Above all and everything else, Sam knew that. They'd both been to blame for the distance between them, and it had been that distance that had distracted them both that night, kept them from being on top of their game. For god's sake, they'd been arguing over simple things. Neither had been willing to relinquish control and let the other lead.

The two fundamental rules of hunting had been completely and utterly ignored that night. Sam could still hear his dad's voice in his head, solid and firm. If you're doing a hunt, your mind is locked on the hunt, or you don't do the hunt.

And never, ever do a hunt with anger between you and someone else. Not when it could be your last hunt.

Sam closed his eyes.

The tiny creak of the door behind him didn't make him jump or move, but he still knew who it was. A moment later, something soft and warm was draped over his shoulders. "You'll get cold," was all Dean said.

Sam swallowed hard as the warmth of the soft blanket began to penetrate through his meager two layers. "Thank you," he whispered.

The silence felt tense and awkward, and Sam bit his lip, not knowing what to say, or what he needed to say. After a long moment, he could hear Dean settle down on the curb next to him, and the tense silence resumed once more. Not even a car passed on the highway yards ahead of them. No car doors slamming, no one emerging from their room. It was just them, alone and silent again.

And Sam realized he couldn't do it. He couldn't go back to how things had been, back to a permanent awkwardness and tension that only dissolved when anger emerged. As much as he'd kept things from Dean, lied to keep him safe, he'd sort of been a coward, too. Attempting to avoid the fight he'd known would come. And that had only led to months of awkwardness and finally a week of solitude that had made him ache deep down in his soul at the wrongness of it.

"I remember everything."

More silence followed, but it wasn't for long. "I figured," Dean said, and his voice sounded cracked. Sam raised his head and turned to Dean, not surprised at the red eyes his brother was sporting. "You've been remembering for a few days now, haven't you?" Dean asked, and he looked almost afraid of the answer.

Why Sam had thought Dean wouldn't pick up on the reason for his blanking out, he didn't know. "Yeah," Sam said softly. "Just little snippets, here and there. Nothing linked together, except...the same hazy feeling. And tonight, it just...all came back."

Dean snorted wetly and turned back towards the parking lot, his smile bitter. "Yeah, because there's nothing better to make you remember your brother shooting you than, oh, I don't know, your brother aiming another gun at you."

"It wasn't your fault," Sam said, and Dean whipped his head back around, staring with his jaw dropped.

"Wasn't my fault? What bizarro world do you live in that makes what I did okay?"

"I didn't say it was okay, I said it wasn't your fault," Sam insisted, and the annoyance and irritation at Dean sort of felt good. It wasn't the fury and righteous anger of the past few months; this felt more like the anger of a little brother not being understood. "We're both to blame for what happened that night."

"Sam-"

"Do you remember what Dad used to tell us, about going on a hunt?" Dean shut up then, his lips pursed and his eyes darting back to the parking lot. "The fundamental two things that you always, always had to remember?"

"Stay focused on only the hunt, and don't go into a hunt with anger left between you and someone else," Dean murmured. His eyes shone for a moment, glistening from the light of their hotel room, and he wiped a hand over his eyes. He pursed his lips, his lower one trembling, and he finally laughed, short and harsh. "I should've known it was you. I should've known what your footfall sounded like, like I used to, that that noise had to be you, but I just turned and fired blindly, and when it hit, I just...I couldn't move, and you looked...and then you disappeared, and god, Sammy, I forgot how to breathe."

Sam gazed at him as Dean tried to steady his breathing, tried to pull it together, and finally reached out and gently clutched at Dean's shirt pocket. Dean turned towards him after a moment, and Sam said quietly, "I should've known where you were. We should've stayed together. I shouldn't have argued with you about which way we were going, or god, argued with you at all about the hunt. I shouldn't have insisted that it all be my way, and should've worked together with you, like a team, like brothers. I told you, the blame's on me, too."

Dean didn't look convinced. Sam took a deep breath and said what they both needed to hear. "But you didn't leave me down there. You got me out, got me help, and you're the reason I'm here right now. That's what my big brother would've done, and he did. You did, Dean."

Dean was still frowning, still looked broken and wrecked, but after a moment, his eyes widened. "You don't ha...you're not mad," he breathed, and when Sam shook his head, his shoulders dropped a solid two inches. Still, he insisted on arguing the point. "Sammy, you should-"

"No, I shouldn't," Sam said firmly. "I couldn't hate you, Dean. Ever. Don't even ask or think that I should." He bit his lip and looked away. "It could've easily been you, Dean. If you'd made a noise first...I think I would've shot, too. And I'm taller than you, which meant my shot? Would've gone through your heart, and-"

"Shut up," Dean said, his gentle tone belying the words, and he tugged Sam over until he could put his arm around Sam's shoulders, Sam's fingers still wrapped around his shirt pocket. The silence that followed wasn't tense or awkward, and several cars passed by on the highway. Off to their right, Sam could hear a door shutting, footsteps crunching in the gravel, and a car door opening.

"We've both been lost," Dean said softly. "Haven't we."

"Yeah."

Laughter was heard, a low conversation, before a door shut, filling in the small silence before Dean spoke again. "Sammy, I-"

"It wasn't your fault, and I'm not mad or hurt."

"I'm still sorry," Dean whispered, and the regret and grief in his voice made Sam lean a little harder into Dean, tighten his fingers a little more. Silent communication that they'd been lacking for so long was now understood without any problems, honest forgiveness the message. The gratitude at it, just as silently given, was as simple as Dean squeezing Sam's left shoulder.

The tinny rock music from Dean's pocket cut through the comfortable silence. Without shifting Dean reached down and pulled out his cell, glanced once at the ID, then flipped it open. "Hey Bobby."

"Been tryin' to call Sam's cell for awhile," Bobby said, and even without speaker-phone Sam heard him loud and clear. "How long's it take to answer a cell phone?"

"Long as it needs to," Sam called, and Dean chuckled, a little harder than he normally would've. But the smile on his face was genuine and relieved, and Sam's smile was equally as bright. They were okay. Ever after everything, they were okay, were still brothers and they both knew it.

"Eavesdropper," Bobby muttered, and Sam grinned. "What's the recent news with you two?"

"A few things, but...we're good," Dean said softly, and he sounded as awed as Sam had felt. He glanced down at Sam, then spoke again, this time with a smile. "We're good."

Better than, as far as Sam was concerned. But he let his head fall onto Dean's shoulder as Dean began relating the recent events, his grip secure and comforting on Sam's shoulder, a solid and strong big brother right beside him where Sam needed him to be. Both of them, side by side once more.

And two weeks, four days after Sam woke up, everything really was right again.

END