Disclaimer: Don't own them. Feeble attempt to get into Dean's head for a minute.

He's hurt and, judging by the disconnect between his brain and the rest of his body, it's bad. Vibrant colours paint the night for him, and he knows that shock is starting to set in.

Sam casts a glance his way as he stumbles again, unsure whether he found a tree root or if his boots are just too heavy to lift. His side is on fire, he can feel the blood running down his body and his breathing is ragged and loud. He is pretty sure Sam knows.

He hopes Sam knows. He clenches his jaw against the pain, but inside he's screaming. Please Sam. Please say something so I don't have to. If you take over I can bitch and complain while you do it but I will let you, I just can't ask you to do it.

He doesn't want to have to say it. Hell, he is not sure if he can say it. He knows it pisses Sam off, he would do anything to keep those worry lines off his brother's face.

Except he can't.

He wants to. Oh boy, does he want to. He would love nothing more than to curl up somewhere and let someone (Sam) take care of him for a change. He has spent almost his entire life taking care of everyone he has ever come in contact with, in one way or another. Why is there nobody to take care of him when he so clearly desperately needs it?

Because he can't say it. Can't ask. Can't allow himself the luxury of admitting he is hurt or sick and can't go on. He would not even know the words to say. Would probably choke to death on them if he did know them and tried to force them past lips clenched tight and white against the agony.

He's not trying to be difficult. It's just so many years of his father telling him to suck it up, hang in there until the job is done. Except then there's the next job, and the next, and it feels like he has been sucking it up his whole life. He doesn't know how to just let his guard down, let himself relax, allow himself to be wounded and cared for.

Sure, his dad would help patch him up when he couldn't reach, or when he was unconscious and bleeding out, but his bedside manner left something to be desired.

Not that his father didn't love him. He sure as hell did, proved it by making him into the best warrior he could possibly be. Increased survivability, that was Daddy Winchester's proof of love.

Lost in thoughts of his father, he staggered again. Pain shot through his body so hard and fast, he could not even tell where it originated from. He could not bite back the pained grunt that tore itself from his chest. The sudden pain spike brought on a wave of nausea that threatened to drop him to his knees, he could feel the cold sweat on his forehead.

As he was catching his feet again he realized Sam was at his side. He had no idea how long he'd been there, gripping his elbow with one hand the other around his waist holding him up.

"You're okay. I've gotcha." He could see the Impala, could feel his brother's hands on him holding him up. Just for a moment, he allowed himself to believe he would really be okay. His knees buckled and darkness ate his vision, the last thing he saw was the love in his brother's eyes.

Yeah, he was going to be just fine.