I was able to finish up the edits on the rest, so here it is. I hope you enjoy! Thanks so much for the reviews. I really appreciate it! AJ

Chapter 3

Dean cursed. Firing a weapon in an old mine wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done, but that freaky bastard had been about to kill Sammy. No time to think, just act.

The spirit dispersed, and Sam crumpled to the ground as a rumble sounded in the mine. Bits of dirt and rock rained down from above.

Dean dove to his knees beside his brother, leaning over Sam to shelter him from the debris. He held his breath, waiting.

The sound faded, shrouding them in silence.

Dean coughed, blinking the grit from his eyes. He pushed back, his focus centered on his brother. The light from the lantern had disappeared with the ghost, leaving Dean's flashlight as their only source.

Sam lay on his side, and Dean's chest tightened as he reached out shaking fingers to press against his brother's neck. A quick, erratic beat met his touch. Sam was alive, thank God. Dean had feared the worst, and the horrible ache that had been slowly eating away his insides for the past seven days subsided to something duller. He just wanted to haul Sam up and hold him and never let him out of his sight again.

Dean settled for brushing back the lock of filthy hair that had fallen across his brother's eyes. He got his emotions in check before trusting his voice. "Sam?" It still came out rough, damn it. Dean set the shotgun and duffel on the ground at his side, then put the flashlight on top of the pack. "Sammy?"

Sam's eyes blinked open and he squinted into the dimness. Chains clinked together as his hands came up, groping the air until his fingers brushed Dean's arm and finally managed to catch hold of it.

That was when Dean noticed the shackles.

"Dean," Sam whispered on a sigh. His body visibly relaxed, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Dean wrapped a hand around the one grasping his arm. "I'm here, little brother. I'm gonna get you outta here, okay?"

Sam's eyes slid closed and he nodded, coughing.

A quick triage revealed no broken bones, but Dean could tell right away his brother had lost weight, muscle mass. Not a lot, but enough that Dean could see it. Sam's face was gaunt, filthy, and scruffy with nearly a week's growth of beard. Gently sliding his fingers into the greasy, dirt-crusted hair, Dean checked for any signs of a head injury. There was a marble-sized lump on the right side, just inside the hairline, but there was no blood in Sam's ears or nose, just dirt. The kid was covered with dirt; it was even in his mouth.

Then there were the shackles. They were on his ankles, too. The damn things were welded, not locked, and Dean cursed the bastard that had done this to his brother. No way to get them off; he'd have to figure the manacles out later.

Sam's wrists were raw, but his hands…his hands were a mess. "God, Sammy…"

In the flashlight's glow, hazel eyes opened, watching him. "'M okay," Sam said softly.

Dean huffed a laugh. "Yeah, I can see that. Can you sit up?"

Another nod, then Sam struggled to oblige, teeth clenched, his grip on Dean tightening. Dean slid an arm under his shoulders and helped. Once upright, Sam gasped, coughing even more harshly from the effort. He leaned weakly into the support, head dropping onto Dean's shoulder.

Dean braced him as Sam caught his breath, sliding a hand up to press the tousled head gently against him in a brief embrace. With his free hand, he dug through his bag, found a bottle of water, and quickly unscrewed the cap with his thumb and forefinger. He lifted his shoulder slightly, nudging Sam's head up. "Hey," he said gently, "water, dude. Here."

It took a moment, but Sam managed to push himself vertical. Dean lifted the bottle to his brother's dry, cracked lips and gave him a small sip. Once that was swallowed, he offered a little more. Sam sputtered a bit, seeming to have a little trouble swallowing, but he managed to drink most of what he'd been given.

"Okay?" Dean asked, tucking the bottle back into his bag.

Sam's eyes were sliding closed again, and he sighed, managing a thumbs-up.

"Stay with me, Sam," Dean urged. "Time to go. Ready?"

"God, yes," came the weak but fervent reply.

Dean slung his duffel over his shoulder and grabbed the shotgun and flashlight. Carefully sliding an arm around his brother's waist, he helped Sam up.

They took it slowly. Sam's legs nearly gave out on him once, but together, they finally managed to get him standing. He was exhausted and panting from the effort but remained on his feet, still gripping Dean's arm like he desperately needed that contact.

And honestly? Dean didn't mind at all.

Steering them toward the passage, the way out, Dean spotted the remains in the corner. He stopped short, eyes narrowing.

"That's…him," Sam provided, his voice a rasp that made Dean's throat hurt to hear it. "Miner."

Great. Salt and burn now, or get Sam the hell out of there?

A low rumbling began, the ground vibrating beneath their feet.

"Interlopers!"

"No," Sam gritted out. "No!" There was panic in his voice as his other hand latched onto Dean's shirt, shaking with the strain.

Okay, forget the salt-and-burn. "Come on, Sam. We're leaving. Now," Dean reassured him. He continued on, pulling Sam with him, moving as fast as the chain between Sam's ankles would allow.

From somewhere behind him, Dean heard the sharp snap of brittle wood, then the thunder of falling dirt and rock. A cloud of dust thickened the air, making it hard to breathe. Dean coughed, squinting into the haze.

He could hear Sam wheezing beside him. They had to be getting close to the ladder—

A deafening crack directly overhead startled Dean, but before he could react, the passage caved in around them. Something collided with his back, driving him to his knees, and he took Sam down with him.

"Dean!" It was as much of a yell as Sam could manage, and it set him coughing, sucking in breaths when he could.

Dean grabbed him and pushed him to the floor, covering as much of his brother as possible with his own body as the debris continued to fall.

"Don't!" Sam cried, pushing feebly at him. "Dean, please…"

Dirt covered the flashlight, plunging them into darkness. It weighed Dean down, pressing, smothering.

Sound eventually faded. All was quiet and still.

And stifling. Like when he'd been young and used to hide under the covers with little Sammy and read comic books by flashlight until the wee hours of the morning. Only, these covers he couldn't flip up to get air.

Dean panicked. Buried alive, and didn't that just bring back memories? How deep? Would he be able to get them out? He could still breathe, so it couldn't be too deep, right?

He pushed up on his arms, growling with the strain. He felt the shift, the tumble of dirt as it fell over his shoulders and onto Sam. Damn it. With a final, mighty push, Dean broke through.

It was an effort to shift his legs, but he managed to move them enough to brace himself while he pulled his brother up to the surface. The flashlight came up with Sam and rolled down the pile of debris, casting its light into the passage.

Sam sputtered and coughed, blinking dust from his eyes until he could see. He reached out for Dean, his face pinched with worry.

"I'm okay," Dean assured him breathlessly. "You?"

Sam's hands dropped to the dirt, and he closed his eyes in relief, nodding.

Dean gave his shoulder a pat, then picked up their light.

A glint along the wall caught his eye. He glanced that way, hoping Miner Forty-Niner wasn't up for Round Two. What Dean saw was enough to steal what was left of his breath.

High along the crumbled wall, a vein of gold reflected the light.

"I'll be damned." The sight was almost mesmerizing.

"Oh, my God…"

Dean tore his gaze away to look at his brother. Sam was staring at the vein in awe, his chest heaving for breath.

"It is here," he whispered. "Parker was right."

Dean turned back to the gold. It had to be worth a fortune. With a grin, he shifted around, but the smile faded when he saw Sam's head slump forward, chin against chest.

Dean took Sam's face in his hands and lifted gently. "Hey. Look at me. Sam?"

Half-open eyes blinked, gaze shifting to Dean.

Dean tried the smile again, this one more strained. "I need you to stay awake."

Sam's eyes slid shut. "So…tired."

"I know." He started digging, pushing the loam away from Sam's legs. "But we gotta get out of here, okay?"

For a moment, there was no response. Then Sam opened his eyes and looked at Dean, his brows drawing together, eyes pleading. "Dean…"

It suddenly got very cold in the mine, their breaths frosting in the air.

Oh, no. No, no, no. Dean dug faster. "Sammy, we need to go. Now." He grabbed his brother's arms and pulled, but there was still too much weight on Sam's legs.

"Go."

Dean stopped, certain he hadn't heard that right. "What?"

Sam's chest hitched. He shook his head, his face lined with sorrow and regret. "Please," he begged. "Go. I…I can't…"

Dean's eyes darkened. "The hell I will," he growled, digging furiously. "No. No friggin' way. I am not leaving you, you hear me?"

Sam's chin trembled, but he pressed his lips together, jaw twitching as he fought for control of his emotions.

Dean dug until there was only a thin layer left, then he clenched his fists in Sam's shirt and hauled him to his feet. He pushed Sam back against the wall and held him there, finger pointed in his face. "And if you think I escaped one pit just to die in another, you'd better think again, little brother."

Sam winced briefly, gasping. He shook his head, stricken by Dean's words. "I'm s-sorry, man. So—" His voice caught.

Dean blanched, loosening his grip. "Sammy…"

His brother's eyes widened in fear, and his body began to tremble beneath Dean's hands.

Dean turned and saw the miner behind him, a pickax poised above its head. Backing up a step to block Sam from harm, Dean stood his ground.

Until a shove at his back sent him tumbling. He tucked and rolled, ending up on his back, watching as the pickax swung through the air where he had been standing. Then, in the blink of an eye, the spirit was inches from Sam, fisting a hand in his hair and drawing his head back to expose his neck.

Sam's back arched off the wall, his hands pushing against the miner, trying to hold it at bay. He clenched his teeth as the pick pressed against his throat, but he glared at his captor with defiance.

Dean scrambled to his feet, eyes searching for the shotgun. It was nowhere in sight, probably buried. He heard Sam gasp, knew there was no time.

The gold. It was a long shot but worth a try.

"Hey!" he shouted. "You want gold?

The spirit slowly turned its head, dead eyes narrowing at Dean.

"That's what you wanted, right? Gold? Well, take a look, buddy." Dean pointed to his right. "There it is."

The miner turned back to Sam.

"It's true," Sam said. "It's right….there." His gaze flicked in the direction of the vein. "It's all yours. All…yours."

For a moment, Dean didn't think it was going to work. They'd be totally screwed. He clenched his fists, trying to come up with Plan B—

The old miner looked to his right. It stared for what seemed an eternity. Then it suddenly released Sam, the pick falling away. Staccato movements brought it to the wall, one hand outstretched to touch the precious ore.

Sam slumped back against the wall, breath shuddering out of him. He caught Dean's gaze for a moment, then looked over at the miner.

Dean looked, too, saw the spirit begin to glow.

"Gold," it wheezed as it stared at the treasure it had spent its life, and well beyond, searching for.

The light grew in intensity. Sam gave a startled cry, his arm shooting up to cover his eyes. Dean shielded his own eyes but kept a watchful gaze on his brother.

Then the light was gone, and so was the ghost.

The clink of chain drew Dean's attention to the shackles just in time to see them drop from his brother's wrists and ankles and turn to dust at his feet. Sam's head dropped back against the wall as he breathed heavily with relief.

But the reprieve didn't last long. A sound like distant thunder rumbled through the mine. It was starting again.

Dean scrambled for the flashlight, and yanked the duffel free. He scooped them up, then grabbed Sam's arm and quickly drew it across his shoulders. He hated to lose the shotgun, but there was no time. Wrapping an arm around his brother's waist, Dean hustled them down the passage toward the ladder. Toward freedom.

Sam stumbled, falling to his knees, but Dean dragged him up again. Sam held onto him, determined.

Not much farther. Not much farther. Maybe if he thought it enough, it would be true. The mine was caving in around them, and Dean was pretty sure that if he fell, he wouldn't be able to get up again. So he couldn't fall. Sam was also fading fast, but somehow he managed to keep pace. Winchester-stubborn. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept them alive.

The passage widened into a room Dean recognized. Just through the next doorway. So close now.

A beam crashed to the floor, missing them by inches and dumping more dirt and rock on top of them. Sam went down again, dragging Dean to one knee. Muscles screaming in protest, Dean managed to straighten, a frustrated growl pushing its way through clenched teeth. He could see the entrance to the shaft. Legs burning, he pushed himself harder.

Dean had to turn sideways to get them through the portal, but a huge sense of satisfaction swelled within him. Until he saw the ladder.

He stopped at the base, tilting his head back to gaze up the vertical bore. It looked a hell of a lot longer than he remembered. Crap.

Here goes nothing.

Ducking out from under Sam's arm, Dean grabbed his brother and pushed him to the ladder. "Climb, Sam. Now."

Sam's head lifted from where it had lolled against his chest, just enough for him to check what was going on. His shoulders sagged. "Dean…"

"You can do it, Sam. We leave together or not at all."

Sam straightened, one shaking hand reaching out. He grabbed onto the side of the ladder and got a foot on the first rung.

Quickly, Dean dodged to the right and grabbed up Sam's backpack from the corner where he'd spotted it on his way down. Slinging it over the opposite shoulder from the duffel, he hurried back to his brother.

"Step on the edges, not in the middle," Dean warned, shouting above the clamor of the collapsing mine. He hoped the old wood would support their combined weight; Sam wouldn't make it on his own.

Two steps. Three. Sam was breathing hard through his nose, the grunts of exertion becoming more pained with each step. Dean stayed behind him, one rung down, keeping him from falling backward.

The ladder began to shake.

"Uh, don't mean to be…insensitive or anything, but…can you pick up some speed, there, bro?"

Sam tensed, so much so that Dean could feel it. But damned if Sam didn't do it. Dean felt a surge of pride as Sam dug deep into his reserves and dragged himself up rung after rung, pausing only long enough to gasp in some air—not easy when every breath set him to coughing again—for the next one.

When Sam's upper body was finally lying on the cabin floor, Dean set his hands on either side of the hole and boosted himself the rest of the way out. He quickly grabbed Sam's arms and dragged him up the rest of the way.

A cloud of dust followed them out into the cabin. Even the walls of the building were vibrating.

Sam was pushing up on shaking arms, dragging his feet under him so he could stand. He stumbled, reaching for Dean.

Dean made sure he was there. He ducked under Sam's arm again and hurried them from the cabin.

Dean took them as far as the tree line, then Sam sank gratefully to his knees. The air wheezed from his lungs as he sat there panting. "De—" he tried to say, but then began to cough. A hacking that wouldn't subside. He groaned, wrapping his arms around his middle, gasping for breath.

"Sam!" Dean dug frantically through his bag, searching for the bottle of water. He yanked it out, then pulled Sam up and back against him. It seemed to help a little. "Easy, Sammy, easy. Just breathe, okay?"

He waited a little longer until Sam regained control. Then, arms encircling his brother, Dean unscrewed the cap on the bottle and lifted it to Sam's lips. He poured a small amount against the cracked mouth, but his brother's reaction this time caught him off-guard.

Sam grabbed the bottle and upended it, gulping desperately. Only about half of it made it into his mouth, which was probably a good thing, because as Dean struggled to get the bottle back, he got the water back, too. Dean held onto Sam as his brother heaved up every drop he had swallowed.

Once the retching subsided and Sam lay back against him, spent, Dean lifted the bottle once more. "Let's try that again, huh?" he chided gently. "But without the mess this time."

Whether Sam had learned his lesson, or was just too weak now, Dean didn't know, but Sam didn't even try to take the bottle this time. He accepted the drink cautiously, taking small sips.

They sat there a long time, Sam breathing in the fresh air, his tension fading, while Dean offered the water at intervals. Time to recoup some strength; it was going to be a long walk back to the car.

~oooOOOooo~

The route seemed awfully familiar. Or…maybe he'd dreamed it? No. No dreams. Dreams were full of horrible and frightening things. This…this felt real.

Dean felt real. His solid support. His warmth. Sam was so cold. Couldn't stop shaking.

And tired. So…

"Whoa!" Dean's voice, close to his ear. "Easy, Sammy. You okay? Need a rest?"

Sam felt himself nod before he even thought about it. It was weird, his mind and body acting independently like that. He felt kind of…adrift. He blinked, trying to focus.

He was sitting now, his back against something rough and…tree-like. Oh. Woods. Right. But…where was… "Dean?"

"Right here, Sam," came the instant reply. A moment later, a water bottle was at his lips, and he drank what was offered. It felt glorious and hurt at the same time. He coughed, the roughness of his throat making him wince.

A hand settled on the back of his neck, rubbing a little, trying to ease the tension there. Sam let his head fall forward, the strain of the motion traveling down his spine.

Dean's hand fell away, and there was the rustle of movement. It was an effort to lift his head, but Sam managed. He squinted into the darkness, trying to focus, needing to know his brother was still there. He didn't want to be alone in the dark anymore. Didn't want to be alone.

"Still here, dude." Dean always knew what he was thinking. "Not going anywhere. Not without you. Okay?"

Sam nodded.

"Here. Sit up."

Sam tried not to groan as he pushed away from the tree, nearly toppling until Dean's arm barred the way, strong across his collarbone.

"Put this on."

The creak and smell of leather were unmistakable, even to Sam's dulled senses. He had trouble finding the sleeves, but managed with his brother's help. The jacket was warm, comforting, and Sam sank into it with a sigh, the trembling easing. But… "'Bout you?" he asked.

"I'm fine," Dean scoffed, ever the macho man. Then his voice gentled. "Time to move, Sam."

Another sigh, then he nodded. He could do this. He could. Sam pushed up, his legs shaking furiously with the effort. Dean helped him up, and once he was standing, it was better, even though he was panting for breath.

"Sam?"

"'M okay. L's go."

Together they pushed on, in sync despite Sam's faltering steps. Sam was certain he zoned a couple of times; Dean's grip on him was tighter when he blinked himself back to awareness. He could hear his brother's labored breathing, knew Dean was pushing himself to the limit.

"Rest…a minute."

"Soon," came Dean's breathy reply.

"Dean—"

"Look, Sam," Dean told him. "There she is."

Sam looked. Even through blurry eyes, there was no mistaking the Impala. He sighed, smiling. So close now. The burst of relief gave him the strength he needed to finish the trip, taking some of the burden off Dean.

The sound of the car door opening was one of the best things Sam had ever heard, and the squeak of vinyl as Dean eased him onto the passenger seat—his seat, which he'd been more than happy to reclaim—made his breath hitch. He let his head fall back, let his eyes drift closed. Sound tunneled. He thought he heard the trunk slam.

Then something warm was tucked around him. A blanket. Dean chafed his arms briefly before settling a hand on the side of his face. Dean's hands were warm, too.

"It's about an hour drive back to town, Sam. Get some sleep."

Sam didn't even hear the car door close.

~oooOOOooo~

It wasn't easy to wrangle his groggy brother through the motel room door and drop him onto the farther of the two beds, but somehow Dean managed. Then he sank to his knees and leaned his forehead against the edge of the mattress, grateful for the moment's respite.

He was exhausted. The adrenaline rush was ebbing away, leaving raw nerves in its wake. But Sam was safe. He'd be okay. That made it all worthwhile.

After a couple of minutes, Dean forced himself up and hobbled to the bathroom to turn on the light. Brightness hurt Sam's eyes, so gradual light seemed the way to go.

The rest of the supplies were in the car, but Dean was certain Sam wasn't going anywhere for the moment, so he went to round them up. His brother was dehydrated; Dean knew that for sure. Slamming the trunk closed in frustration, he noted the small convenience store across the street. Well, that was…convenient. Once he figured out what he needed, he would know where to go. He lugged the supplies into the room and dumped them on his bed.

Sam hadn't moved an inch.

Sorting through the supplies, Dean took stock of what they had and what they didn't.

The cuts and abrasions on Sam's wrists and ankles from the shackles needed attention, but the first order of business was to get Sam rehydrated. Dean laid a hand on Sam's head, not caring about the dirt. "I'll be right back, bro."

Dull eyes cracked open, brow furrowing above them. But after a moment, the lines smoothed out and Sam gave a single nod, eyes sliding shut again.

Dean felt a pang of regret at leaving him, but he headed for the door, casting a final glance back before stepping outside and closing the door behind him.

The store had everything he needed, and Dean mentally checked off his list as he placed the items onto the counter. Six bottles of Gatorade, ten bottles of water, Cup-a-Soup, gauze bandages, and a package of disposable razors. He paid in cash and headed back across the street.

Sam was still exactly where he had left him.

Pushing the clock back on the nightstand, Dean made room for his supplies. He got them set up, then retrieved a towel from the bathroom. Looking at Sam, he sighed; he hated to wake the guy, but…

"Sam?" Dean called gently, giving his brother's shoulder a nudge. When he got no response, Dean tried again, louder.

Sam frowned. "Please." It was barely a whisper. "Jus' lemme…sleep."

It was a plea, not a request, and it made Dean's stomach flip. Sam wasn't simply exhausted; he'd been deprived of sleep. Anger rose in him again, but Dean pushed it back. The ghost was history. Sam was safe. But…

Maybe he didn't remember he was.

"Sammy, it's me," Dean soothed. "Come on, bro. I know I'm being a monster pain in the ass right now, but we need to get some liquids in you, okay? So I need you to help me out here, or I'm gonna have to take you to the hospital. And believe me, man, you don't want all those pretty nurses to see you like this. I mean, you smell like a week's worth of dirty laundry."

Somewhere in his rambling, he noticed Sam's eyes opening. He blinked a few times before his gaze found Dean, then wandered a moment before coming back. Sam sighed, his eyes sliding shut. But Dean thought he caught the slightest quirk of the lips before they formed a single word. Dean couldn't hear it, but he knew what had been said, and it made him smile.

"Bitch," he responded, then gave his brother a nudge. "Uh-uh. Wakey, wakey."

Sam responded with a groan this time and slowly inched his hands into position to push himself up. His arms shook with the strain, so Dean helped him, easing him up and around until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Sam planted his hands firmly at his sides in an effort to keep steady.

Dean paused a moment to make sure his brother wasn't going to fall over. Satisfied, he reached for a bottle of water. "Sam?"

Sam looked at him, coughing slightly between raspy breaths.

Holding up the bottle of water, Dean said, "Okay, look. I know you're thirsty, but you gotta take it slow, okay?"

Sam nodded wearily.

Dean gave him a sip, then waited for him to swallow. "You okay?" he asked.

Another nod.

"No puke-fest coming?"

Sam gave him a withering look.

"Humor me."

With a sigh of resignation, his brother shook his head.

Placing a hand on the back of Sam's neck for support, Dean gave him a few more sips. With each one, Sam seemed to be swallowing easier. A little more water, then Dean switched to Gatorade.

When Sam saw the bottle, he reached for it, but Dean pulled it back. "Oh, no, we're not doing that again."

The hands dropped; Sam didn't have the strength, or the voice, to argue, but he was all little brother when he rolled his eyes.

Dean sat next to him on the bed, folding his left leg beneath him. Hand back to Sam's neck, he lifted the bottle and gave him a mouthful. When Sam managed to keep that down, too, Dean mussed his hair affectionately, sending a shower of dust onto the bedspread.

Wiping his hand on the leg of his jeans, Dean asked, "You up for a trip to the bathroom?"

"Sleep," was the whispered reply.

"Not like this, dude. We have to get you cleaned up. Then you can sleep for a week if you want."

Sam's head turned, and he glanced over his shoulder at the bathroom door. Judging the distance, Dean realized. Shoulders slumping a little more, Sam turned back and reached for the bottle. Dean let him have it, but had to help him lift it. "Little at a time, Sammy," Dean reminded him. When Sam was finished, Dean took the bottle back and screwed the cap on. "Ready?"

Sam tried to stand on his own but nearly face-planted. He caught himself with a hand on Dean's shoulder, blinking like he was dizzy, so Dean gave him a minute, catching the outstretched arm and holding him steady.

When Sam was ready, Dean eased him up on trembling legs. "Nice and slow," he said.

They made it around the bed, Sam pressing a hand against the wall for added support as soon as it was in reach. Smudged handprints were left in his wake. He squinted the closer they got to the light, but it didn't seem to hurt his eyes like it had before.

The trip took a long time, but Dean finally settled Sam on the edge of the tub and gave him a moment to catch his breath. The offer of another drink was gratefully accepted. He pulled off Sam's boots next, then leaned into the tub to turn on the water. While it warmed up, Dean turned back and saw that Sam had managed to get his shirt halfway off, but had to rest before continuing, his face a picture of frustration.

Dean shook his head. "Dude, you're a mess."

Sam grunted, sliding him a sarcastic thanks a lot look before he tugged the shirt off completely and tossed it into the trash can.

Dean unwrapped a bar of soap from the sink while Sam struggled with his jeans. Dean wanted to give him as much of his independence as he could, but Sam was fading fast. Dean could tell his brother was fighting embarrassment, whether over his unsuccessful attempts to escape Parker, or the weakness of his body that made every movement a monumental effort. But, God, it hurt to see him like this.

Staying close enough to catch Sam if he keeled over, Dean waited patiently for him to finish, keeping the Gatorade coming slowly but steadily. He tested the water, then turned on the shower. Sam wouldn't be able to stand in the tub, but he couldn't sit in dirty water either, so a bath was out of the question. He could sit under the spray, though. Dean folded one of the larger towels and set it in the tub for Sam to sit on.

Sam didn't seem to care what was in store as long as it didn't involve too much effort on his part. As Dean helped his brother into the tub, he couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if this hunt had been four months ago. Sam had escaped once; he might have done so again. Or he might have died in that mine. The thought made Dean shiver, even in the warm, steamy air, so he tucked it away where it wouldn't hurt anymore and turned his attention back to Sam.

And was shocked by what he saw. What the water had revealed. Under the layers of grime, his brother was deathly pale. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his skin looked almost translucent.

Dean sank to his knees beside the tub. "Sammy…"

Sam didn't look at him. He sat slumped, head against the side wall, and stared at the tile as the water rained down on him. A frown puckered his forehead, and his eyes were glazed over. Dark water swirled toward the drain, rinsing away the dirt of days past. If only the memories were so easy to wash away.

Dean knew that wasn't the case. The mind's eye kept vivid pictures, better than HD. Yeah, he knew that for a fact.

He blinked back to the present when he heard the hiss of pain. Sam was wincing, his eyes squeezed shut as the water fell on his upturned hands, revealing palms and fingers where blister upon blister had broken and worn away, leaving raw red flesh exposed.

Dean carefully took Sam's right hand—the worse of the two—and pulled it toward him for closer inspection. It definitely needed a thorough cleansing. Now that most of the dirt was gone, it looked like there were splinters embedded in the skin as well. Dean looked up again, and found Sam staring at his hand.

"He made me…work the mine." The voice was ragged. "Wouldn't let me…rest."

Dean held his breath as he listened.

"No food. Water the first couple of days or so." Sam paused, swallowed. "Cooper's dead."

"I figured."

"He was right there. Right there the whole time. Laughing at me."

It took Dean a minute to realize Sam was talking about the ghost. The remains.

"So close." Sam's eyebrows lifted and he huffed a laugh. "So close and I couldn't…" He laughed in earnest this time, until he coughed, then choked out a sob, the fear and frustration and helplessness of his ordeal finally surfacing. No tears fell from his eyes; his body couldn't spare them.

Dean stayed where he was, Sam's hand cradled in his. He reached out with his other hand, let it settle on the back of Sam's head. He would stay as long as Sam needed him there, because it sucked to be alone. Alone and afraid and in pain.

Dean knew that better than anyone.

~oooOOOooo~

An hour later, Sam was dressed in sweatpants and sitting up in bed, a pillow cushioning his back. Dean had stripped off the spread, which was flecked with dirt from Sam's clothes and, well, Sam. But that was all taken care of, and Sam had to admit, he was feeling better already. He'd even allowed Dean to wash his hair, and it felt good to get rid of the last of the vestiges of that damned mine.

Well, almost the last.

Sam rested, tense but silent, right hand propped on the nightstand as Dean used a pair of tweezers to pull splinter after splinter from his palm. He twitched as his brother removed a particularly deep one, but he never uttered a sound.

The television was on, volume low. There wasn't anything interesting on at the moment, but it gave him something to focus on while Dean tugged out what Sam hoped was the last of the wood slivers. But he still caught the covert glances Dean tossed up at him every so often, just making sure he was okay. God, he'd missed his brother.

"Keep drinking that water, Sammy."

Without taking his eyes off the TV, Sam groped around with his bandaged hand for the bottle that was somewhere to his left. He'd finished off two bottles of Gatorade to replace his electrolytes, so Dean had given him a bottle of water.

The clatter of the tweezers hitting the nightstand drew his attention.

"Okay. Think I got 'em all," Dean announced, grabbing the antibacterial cream and bandages.

"Dean."

Dean froze, his eyes darting upward.

Puzzled by his brother's expression, Sam asked, "What?"

Dean cleared his throat, pulled a face, and went back to work. "Nothin'."

"No, Dean. What is it?"

His brother stopped again, shrugged. "It's just…" He looked up at Sam. "For a minute there, you reminded me of Dad. You even sounded like him."

Sam held his gaze a moment, then looked away, an uneasiness settling in his stomach. Raising his bandaged hand to his jaw, he fingered the scruff there. Then his hand dropped back into his lap. "Can't wait to get rid of this."

"I'll take care of it," Dean said matter-of-factly as he finished wrapping Sam's right hand and moved on to his wrist.

"Dude—"

"Hey, it's just like going to the barber. I could even give you a trim if you want."

Sam snorted. "You are not touching my hair."

Dean laughed. "Well, there's gratitude for you. What were you going to say before?"

Sam paused, struggling to remember. "I'm hungry," he said finally.

Tossing the rolls of gauze back onto the nightstand, Dean nodded. "How about some soup?"

"Sounds good."

"When you're finished, you can sleep for an hour."

"You said I could sleep for a week," Sam reminded him, and tried not to wince at the petulance coloring his voice.

Dean folded his arms across his chest, one eyebrow inching upward. "You want to go to the hospital where they can give you an IV, fine. Otherwise, I have to wake you to drink more."

Sam wanted to disagree, even opened his mouth to do so, but something stopped him. With a sigh, he nodded in agreement. Dean was Dean. And even after…everything, he was still Sam's big brother. Always would be. And as his brother turned to go, Sam said softly, "I knew you'd come." Dean turned back, and Sam lowered his gaze, not wanting his brother to see the glaze forming over his eyes. "Knew you'd find me. Just wasn't sure it would be in time…"

A hand mussed his damp hair warmly. "Get some rest, Sam. Soup'll be up in a couple of minutes."

It was times like this when Sam wondered how he'd ever survived without his brother. But…that was it, wasn't it? He'd survived.

He hadn't lived.

~oooOOOooo~

By the afternoon, Sam was clean-shaven and sitting up watching TV. He was still enervated and would probably be blowing dirt from his nose for a few days, but he looked much better, and his skin had regained its elasticity.

With the immediate concerns all but handled, Dean realized he was starving. The mere thought of food sent his stomach rumbling, so he grabbed two mugs from the tray beside the coffee maker and filled them with water. They went in the microwave for three minutes. When he turned back, he saw Sam watching him, eyebrows raised.

Dean lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. "Thought you might be hungry again."

The brows came down. "Understatement." Sam's voice was scratchy and broken, as if he had a sore throat, so he was keeping to monosyllables for the most part. "Two?"

"It would be really inconsiderate of me to eat a cheeseburger in front of you." Dean grinned, Cheshire-like. "I'm an awesome brother."

Sam breathed a laugh. "Didn't stop you," he cleared his throat, "from getting breakfast this morning."

Dean spread his arms, all innocence. "Hey, you were asleep."

Sam shook his head, but he was smiling.

Dean grabbed the box of Cup-a-Soup from the dresser, pulled out the last two packages, and waited for the microwave to ding. Then he pulled out the steaming mugs and made lunch. When he was finished, he set both mugs on the nightstand and pointed at Sam's. "Just let that sit for a minute." He opened another bottle of Gatorade and placed it beside the mug, then flopped onto his bed and grabbed the remote. "You watching that?"

Sam didn't even hesitate, just shook his head.

Two rounds through the channels later, Dean stopped on the opening credits of a Looney Tunes cartoon and beamed when the title announced it was "Robin Hood Daffy." "My man Daffy!" he crowed.

Sam rolled his eyes.

They enjoyed the cartoon together, Dean watching Sam covertly to make sure he didn't have trouble with the mug. It took both wrapped hands, but Sam managed.

Dean downed his soup, but it was nothing more than an appetizer to his stomach. Sure, he could go out and get a burger, finish it before he got back, but Sam would know. And that was just…wrong.

They watched two more shorts, one with Bugs and one with Foghorn Leghorn, before Dean's stomach complained loud enough to draw Sam's attention.

Sam quirked an eyebrow.

Dean ignored him.

"Dean, go get something to eat."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, right."

Dean gave him an offended look. "What?"

Tossing back the covers, Sam slid his legs off the side of the bed. "There's no reason for you not to eat. "It's…" He winced. "…okay."

"Really?"

A hand snaking around his middle, Sam nodded toward the door. "Go."

Dean bounced off the bed and grabbed his jacket off the chair. His hand on the doorknob, he glanced over his shoulder. "I'll be right—" His eyes narrowed.

Sam's head was down and both hands were wrapped around his abdomen.

"You okay?"

Rocking a little, Sam lifted his head, his expression one of confusion. "Yeah, I just…" He gasped in pain. "Dean…" With a cry of pain, he doubled over.

Dean dropped his jacket and darted forward, falling to his knees on the floor as Sam took a nosedive off the bed. Dean managed to break the fall, landing hard on his backside, Sam's back against his chest. "Sammy?"

"Stomach," Sam managed between gasps.

Dean tightened his grip, not knowing what else to do. Guilt twisted his insides into knots. He should have taken Sam to the hospital. He shouldn't have tried to take care of him himself. "Easy, easy. I'm sorry, Sam. I thought the soup would be okay."

"Not…your fault. I…I finished off the bacon and…hash browns…while you were in…shower." Another groan. "Smelled so good. I thought…" Sam curled himself into a ball, his body jerking with spasms. "God, Dean…"

The practical part of Dean knew this was Sam's deprived stomach rebelling against the greasy food. It would pass. It would. But that didn't make it any easier to deal with now.

One of Sam's hands locked around Dean's wrist and squeezed, the grip tightening with each spasm.

"I got you, Sammy. You're gonna be okay." But for now, Dean just held on. He wasn't hungry anymore.

~oooOOOooo~

Dean startled awake, his heart pounding, the remnants of his nightmare clinging to him with sharp claws. He panted for breath and wondered what, thank God, had woken him.

More pounding, then a muffled "Dean?"

Dean blinked. The door. Bobby. He sounded worried.

Dean moved to get up but then stopped, feeling the weight on his legs. He looked down, and it all came back to him.

He was still sitting on the floor between the beds. Once the stomach cramps had subsided, Sam had collapsed, exhausted, right where he was. Now he lay next to Dean, his head pillowed on Dean's thigh, sound asleep.

Dean shifted carefully, a hand resting on Sam's head to keep it steady as he dug his cell phone from his pocket. It slipped free, and he settled back against his bed. A few buttons brought up their old friend on speed dial.

The pounding stopped, and Dean heard a frustrated curse that made him huff a laugh. A few seconds later came a "What the—?," then Bobby answered the phone. "Dean?" The sound came through the door and the phone.

Dean couldn't help the smile that crept across his face. "Hey, Bobby," he said softly.

"Where the hell are you?"

"In the room." He kept his voice low so he wouldn't disturb the sleeper, but he couldn't resist toying with Singer.

A moment of silence, then, "In the… Boy, what are you playing at? Get off your ass and open the door. You about gave me a heart attack."

"Yeah, about that… Think you could pick the lock?"

"What?"

"I'll explain when you're inside." He snapped the phone closed and listened. On the other side of the door, he could hear the older hunter grumbling about cryptic Winchesters, picking locks, and damn fool kids. God, he loved Bobby.

Tools slid into the lock and, a moment later, the door opened. Bobby stood at the threshold, ever cautious. "Dean?"

Dean lifted a hand and waved. "Over here." He didn't know what it was Bobby expected to find, but the man was armed, and Dean felt the warmth of gratitude at the sight of him.

Singer tucked away his pistol as he entered the room, closing the door behind him. He approached with a puzzled look on his face, but stopped at the space between the two beds, taking in the scene.

Dean shrugged, then looked down at his brother. His fingers absently combed through the dark mop of hair, drawing it back from Sam's face. The lines of pain were gone, and he wasn't flinching in his sleep. Maybe the worst was past. "He finally fell asleep."

"On the floor?"

Dean huffed a laugh. "Don't ask."

Shoulders dropping, Bobby sighed, lifting a hand to scratch under his ball cap. "He all right?"

"He'll be fine."

"You need anything?"

Dean thought about it a moment. "A cheeseburger or three would be awesome."

Bobby chuffed, shaking his head. "You got it." He watched them a moment longer, something akin to fondness in his eyes, then turned to go.

"Bobby?"

The man stopped, turned back, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"

Dean paused, chewed his lower lip a moment before asking, "Mind if we head back up to your place once Sam is ready to hit the road?"

There was no hesitation in the answer. "You don't even need to ask." He gave Dean a nod, then left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Dean considered getting Sam back into bed, then thought better of it. Despite the exhaustion, Sam had been having real trouble falling asleep. Dean decided to just let him be. He set his cell phone on the nightstand, then stretched for the remote. The TV was still on, but the 'toons had ended long ago. What time was it? The clock was somewhere behind his head, so Dean gave up and began flipping through the channels. As an afterthought, he grabbed one of his pillows and maneuvered it behind his back so he didn't suffer permanent damage from the bed frame.

Sam shifted slightly but didn't wake.

Dean found him good company even when he was asleep.

Then his gaze drifted heavenward and he said something to the Man Upstairs that was probably long overdue: "Thanks."

~oooOOOooo~

They'd spent the better part of the morning cleaning up the room, Sam moving slower than usual. But his strength was gradually returning, and he was grateful to be able to move around, to stand even, without having to rest every minute.

After two days, Dean had finally stopped hovering. Sam still had a pretty nasty cough, was still hacking up bits of dirt, but the worst of it was over.

Scanning the room for anything he'd missed, Sam stuffed the last of his belongings into his backpack and zipped it shut. He looked up at his brother and felt his lips pull into a smile. Dean had saved his life. Again. "Hey," Sam called suddenly, "still want that burger?" It was the least he could do.

Dean looked up from packing, eyebrows climbing. "You buying?"

Sam huffed a laugh. "Yeah, I'm buying."

"Well, then, hell yeah." Dean grinned as he slung his duffel over his shoulder and headed for the door.

"I could go for a cold beer, too," Sam decided.

Dean shook his head on his way to the door. "Sorry, Sam. No can do."

Sam frowned. What? Okay, he could only take the mother hen for so long. "Dean, I'm fine. I can have a beer."

Dean turned back to him, one hand on the doorknob. His expression was serious, like he was about to deliver one of his lectures.

Sam tensed.

"Sammy, you know the rules. Miners can't drink."

Sam grabbed a pillow off the bed and lobbed it at Dean with a muttered "Jerk."

Dean laughed, utterly pleased with himself as he dodged the projectile and ducked out the door. His laugh was contagious.

Yeah, it was good to have his big brother back.

Finis