Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

Warnings: Nothing really? Not this time, I don't think.

Dean ached. Spending the majority of three days in a hospital chair would do that to anyone, but he refused to leave Sam's side for a place more comfortable.

Sam, who had yet to speak a word despite being able to stay awake for longer stretches of time. When Dean thought about it, he hadn't heard any sounds at all from Sam since finding him.

He had more time now to notice little things like that, when they weren't on a timetable to save Sam (and he wondered if he had really saved Sam, or if he was already too broken by the time they arrived). Unfortunately, that meant having to face the reality that he didn't know what Sam needed from him. He no longer had a single objective to obsessively chase, just a vague notion of 'recovery' and whatever that entailed.

Sam was asleep, barely. Without pharmaceutical help (and he refused any pills offered to him with vehement shakes of his head and fear in his eyes), his sleep became erratic and overloaded with nightmares. Yet even amidst the worst dreams his subconsciousness threw at him, he never once made a sound. He thrashed and thrashed until Dean had to hold him down to prevent him from hurting himself while he tried to wake him up with soft assurances that it was only a nightmare, but he would just stare at Dean when he woke up with a look of pure terror and never said a word. Not even a scream. A whimper. A whine. A cry.

Dean would've taken anything at that point. Any sign that Sam even still had the ability to produce sound, which the doctor insisted that he did. He just wasn't using it.

And that scared Dean. He wondered if the electrical burns on Sam's neck were part of it, but he had the feeling that he would never hear the full story of what Sam went through since that night Dean left him alone at the motel.

And Sam would never know how many times Dean wished he could go back and change it all.

The only bright side so far was that they could take Sam out of the hospital that afternoon. His back was healed enough that it was still uncomfortable when Sam laid on it, but the wounds weren't reopening regularly. The cut on his leg was healing nicely. Most importantly, the majority of drugs had made their way out of his system and there wasn't any sign of infection.

The bad part was that Sam had yet to eat anything. He never even tried to take a bite of any of the meals brought to him. The doctor still wasn't happy, even if John felt confident enough that he could keep his son alive despite his refusal to do something as basic as eat. She was unhappy with the discharge, but backed down and reluctantly gave in to John's request.

Or the doctor was able to realize that John would take Sam out of the hospital with or without her permission.

He ran a hand down his face, something he'd done dozens of times since taking up residence in that hospital chair. As though it would wipe away the weariness. As though it could give him an idea of what he was supposed to be doing.

He met Sam's eyes then, open and semi-aware. Sometimes, even when his eyes were open, Sam didn't really seem awake. It was like he wasn't seeing where he was. He was miles away in his own mind, and Dean wasn't sure he wanted to know where, exactly, Sam's mind took him when he mentally checked-out.

"Sammy?"

Sam's eyes moved to look at Dean, slow and distant.

"Hey," Dean said, he leaned forward and kept his voice soft (trying to convince himself that he wasn't talking to Sam like he was a scared animal who'd been cornered). "Ready to get out of here later?"

Sam's eyes drifted from him to focus on the tattoo on his arm. 18166. If Dean thought he might get an answer, he knew he wouldn't anymore. When Sam caught sight of his number, he was lost again.

Dean hated it. He wished he could cut the damn thing off, but it meant hurting Sam. Lose-lose situations were becoming too common of a theme in his life. Was he supposed to hurt Sam to help Sam? How was he supposed to get rid of all the little physical reminders that Sam carried on his skin?

Why wasn't anyone telling him how to fix everything? Why wasn't anyone telling him how to fix anything?

"That's okay, Sammy," he said, clearing his throat and setting his own focus on the screen of the muted TV, if only to avoid seeing Sam lost in the darkness of his own mind. "You can talk when you feel up to it."

John came back into the room nearly an hour later with a couple of bags in hand. "Got you some clothes to wear on the way back, Sam," he said, raising up one of the bags. "Just some basics, but you'll have your own things back soon enough."

John raised the other bag, then, and said, "This one is filled with the good stuff. Pain killers. Sleeping pills. Some ointment for the burns. The works."

Sam didn't make any indications that he heard a word that John said. His eyes were turned in that general direction, but Dean didn't think that they were seeing John. He didn't think that Sam was seeing the hospital room at all.

"They just gave Sam whatever they thought he'd need?" Dean asked. "That's a bit unusual."

John shrugged and set the bags on a chair. "None of the staff is exactly happy knowing what Liu has going on in the city, so they try to give escaped slaves the best treatment they can and get them far away from Liu."

"Why can't they get him arrested or something?"

"Probably has the right people in his pocket to make any charges against him disappear. He wouldn't be the first person."

"Can we just get out of here?" Dean asked.

"Yeah." John opened up the bag of clothes and set them on the bed by Sam, piece by piece. "You need any help changing, Sam?"

Dean saw him staring at the tattoo on his arm again, so he stood and covered it with his hand. He wasn't sure if Sam would freak out at the physical contact, but to his relief it simply drew his attention to Dean.

"Dad got you some new clothes so we can get you to Jim's. Do you need help changing?" he asked. He didn't think that Sam was physically incapable of getting himself dressed (it might hurt a little, but it wouldn't be anything serious), but he also didn't know if Sam would be able to stay focused on a single task and not drift back into his thoughts.

Still, Dean wanted to offer him a little bit of independence after he had so much taken from him. If that meant sitting outside of the room for five minutes to give him a chance to change his own clothes, so be it.

Sam shook his head.

So Dean left the room and leaned against the closed door. "Five minutes," he said to John. "I don't want to leave him alone any longer than that."

John just nodded. He probably didn't want to leave Sam alone at all, and Dean felt the same. The problem was knowing what Sam needed now, especially since it was becoming clear that he wasn't about to tell them exactly what it was he needed any time soon.

So Dean was left trapped in the world's worst guessing game with stakes too high for his liking.

Dean spent the time tapping his foot and staring at his watch. Five minutes felt more like five hours, but it passed eventually and he stormed back into Sam's room. Right as the door opened, the image of a horribly empty motel room flashed in his head. He shook it away, but the lingering fear of seeing a similar image refused to leave.

Instead, he saw Sam sitting up, having managed to get sweatpants and a t-shirt on, but struggling with his socks. His hands trembled too hard, and Dean could see the rising frustration in Sam.

It shouldn't have, but that made him glad. Some things, at least, hadn't changed. Sam wasn't emotionally emptied. Dean would gladly take frustration over the flashes of terror and long bouts of nothingness.

Dean moved closer and took the socks from Sam. "You did most of it, Sam. Just let me help you out with the rest," he said.

He couldn't remember the last time he had to help Sam put socks, shoes, or a sweatshirt on, but he didn't think that Sam had been so complacent when Dean had to help him as a child. He wasn't trying to squirm away or insist that he could do it himself. He just sat and stared.

Dean looked at his dad and saw the same concern he felt mirrored in his dad's eyes. "Are you sure it's okay for us to be taking him out of here?" he asked.

John sighed. "It wouldn't be my first option, but I have a bad feeling about staying here too long."

"Yeah?" Dean asked. "Are you going to tell me about this bad feeling this time?"

John glared at Dean, and Dean wished he kept his mouth shut. He was just as much to blame as John was. Hell, he deserved more blame than John did. He deserved all of it.

"I can't imagine that someone would be happy with losing a source of income. Especially not someone who apparently has all the right people, and thankfully not the hospital staff among them, in his pocket and enough money to make it speak," John said.

Dean finished tying Sam's shoes and pulled the sleeve of Sam's sweatshirt down over the tattoo on his arm, removing it from his sight. How had things gotten so bad that Sam, who had been on a fierce independent streak for years, now needed Dean's help to do such simple things?

Not that he minded helping out Sam. It was the least of what he owed him. What bothered him was the way Sam just went along with it, like he wasn't there inside. His body was alive, yet his eyes were anything but.

Sam was in motion, but it wasn't him moving. It couldn't be. The body that Dean helped transfer into a wheelchair and tucked a pillow behind didn't belong to him. He was just a spectator.

The wounds though, those were his. They still burned and stung like they were fresh, but he knew that they were healing. He saw the skin starting to look a little healthier. A little more normal. The pain wasn't supposed to be real, but it felt more real than anything since the minute he was taken.

Dean pulled his sleeve over the tattoo on his arm, but when Sam glanced down at it laid over his lap, he could see the numbers all the same.

18166.

18166.

They burned neon through the fabric of his sleeve. Each time he read them, the shreds of identity that Dean and his dad brought back by calling him 'Sam' or 'Sammy' were flayed away again.

Dean pushed him through the halls, slow and careful.

He heard them talking sometimes, Dean and his dad. It was usually about him, and he understood that part. He might not have understood the words perfectly—they didn't always register in his mind—but he caught the meaning behind them.

They were leaving the hospital. That was okay. He was tired of seeing the pitying faces of nurses and doctors who knew why he was there.

They were going to Pastor Jim's, he thought. Dean and his dad might have mentioned it once or twice. That was… He didn't know if that was okay. He didn't want Jim to know what he went through.

He didn't want to remember it, and just the memories of being taken, sold, and forced into labor were enough. He was glad he didn't remember much from Liu's club, but he felt what he repressed at the edges of his mind.

He also felt the fire inside of him, a constant presence that demanded use. He couldn't use it, not around Dean or John. They could never know about it, that much he was certain of. It was the only thing that was clear in his mind.

The problem was that he wanted to use it. He felt he needed to use it. He needed the rush of strength it brought him. But it also reminded him of the monster the traffickers made him into, and he didn't need his family to see that.

Instead, he wanted to go back to sleep, fall back into the bliss of unconsciousness. The nightmares faded when he woke up, so he wasn't afraid to face them in his sleep. No matter how shaken Dean looked when he hovered over him as he opened his eyes.

The doctors and nurses offered him sleeping pills and pain pills when they noticed that he wasn't sleeping well any more, not as the drugs keeping him drowsy left his body, but he couldn't bring himself to accept them. He shook his head, and when they offered with more force, tried to gently coerce him into swallowing them, he just shook his head more vehemently.

His main doctor (or the one he saw the most at least) stopped them as they left. She begged John to reconsider taking Sam this soon, but backed down at John's reasoning. She promised to call a cab and that the staff would pay the fare to get Sam safely out. As far away from Liu as any of them could get him, but he feared that Liu had already buried too deep within him.

They waited in the hospital's lobby for the cab, Dean crouched next to him and babbling off an endless stream of directionless, one-sided conversation. He kept his voice low and soft, the way he used to talk when Sam was a kid who woke up in the middle of the night from a nightmare.

The way he still talked when Sam woke up from nightmares or, in this case, lived them.

Sam found the energy to turn his head to meet Dean's eyes, and he saw the hope bloom in them.

But he also saw the guilt that threatened to overflow from them.

"Sammy, you with me?" he asked.

Sam's throat tightened underneath the snowy bandages covering it, and his words died before ever reaching his mouth. He just wanted to be able to tell Dean that he didn't blame him for anything that happened.

Dean waited, looking like the absolute destruction or reconstruction of his world hinged on what Sam did next.

Sam wondered if that was worse than the pity from everyone else.

He had to look away from Dean. He didn't want to see the pain his inability to do something as simple as speak would cause his brother.

Dean gave the top of his shoulder a light pat, avoiding anywhere close to the brand, and said, "Maybe next time."

In a way, that hurt more. The way that Dean was able to be so patient about his behavior. How he just accepted that Sam was shutting down from the inside.

He appreciated the constant presence of his brother on the other hand. He let Dean help him into the cab and fuss with the pillow to make him comfortable.

His dad sat on the other side, keeping his distance, but never too far away that he wouldn't be there to help.

It was strange to be treated like such a child again. As the cab sped over bumps that left Sam a little more sore than he would like to admit (and thinking again that his dad should have let him stay at the hospital a little longer like the doctor wanted), Dean did what he could to try and make the trip a little less painful for Sam. It ended with Sam half-laying on Dean's lap with the pillow doing what it could to help keep Sam's back from being jostled around too much.

And then he was in the car with Liu again, being driven to a nightclub while Liu stroked his head and had him lay on his lap. The smell of Liu's cologne choked him, and he gagged.

"Sammy, you okay?" Dean asked.

"Sammy?" John added in his own concerned voice.

Sam shook his head. Okay was something he hadn't been in a long, long time now.

Dean moved to run his hand over Sam's shortened hair, but Sam flinched away and Dean's hand froze in the air. Sam didn't know what his brother thought about his action, if he added another dollop of guilt to the already insurmountable amount.

He put his hand to rest on Sam's shoulder, above the mostly healed brand like he was afraid to touch it, and settled on whispering to Sam, "You're okay. We're gonna take you home. You'll be fine."

Sam closed his eyes and let Dean continue his litany of reassurances as they went to the airport, trying to keep his memories at bay and holding on to the sound of Dean's voice to keep him grounded.

They managed to board the plane, Dean having to nearly carry Sam through the airport in his weak state. How long had it been since the kid walked without injuries inhibiting him or disaster pushing him forwards? How long had it been since the kid had a decent meal?

There were so many questions he had that were left unanswered, but he needed the answers if he wanted to know where to start repairing Sam. The cab ride over was proof enough that there were wounds running deeper than either Dean or John originally believed.

And Dean was scared to believe that what they witnessed from Sam earlier was just the surface.

He was fine one minute, then he was choking on nothing. Dean remembered the oxygen mask that covered Sam's face for far too long (in his opinion) in the hospital. He hoped that Sam's problem was something psychological instead of something physical. He wouldn't have been able to fix Sam's problem regardless, but if it was psychological, Sam would be able to survive it easier.

He would say that maybe God was listening and answered a prayer for once, but he wasn't much of a believer anymore.

A just god would never have let someone as innocent as Sam be hurt so badly. A caring god would never have ignored all of those kids suffering in the factories and nightclubs.

Which led Dean to the conclusion that if there were a god or some higher power, they no longer gave any shits about humanity.

Sam sat between him and John on the plane, looking dreadfully pale and shaky. Dean brought the pillow he took from the hospital on board and had it cushioning Sam's back, but nothing seemed to alleviate his source of anxiety. Dean knew it had to be something involving Sam's plane ride out of America. And that meant it was just another thing he didn't know how to fix.

Security hadn't been very impressed when the pillow and Sam's bag of prescriptions and bandages were the only pieces of luggage they had, but as long as they got to go through and get on a plane to safety, he didn't care.

John left minutes ago and finally returned with a mini bottle of water Dean imagined he managed to get from the flight attendants. With Dean's help, they coaxed Sam into drinking some of it, his trembling hands spilling more on the ground than into his mouth.

But he drank. As long as he got to hold the bottle, as long as he had that small bit of control, he willingly took sips.

And then he was out, slumped against Dean in his seat.

Dean put his arm around Sam's shoulders. "You put sleeping pills in his water, didn't you?" he asked.

John nodded, not an ounce of guilt to be found. "You saw him in the car. It's easier this way."

"I just wish it wasn't."

"I know," John said. "I do, too."

They saved Sam. He was supposed to be okay, but he wasn't. He was just a ghost of who he used to be.

Dean felt the solidity of his brother sitting next to him and heard his soft breaths. This was what he wanted. It was what he searched for all month.

The plane took off and Dean was left feeling that even though their hunt for Sam was successful, it was a Pyrrhic victory.

When they landed in Chicago, Dean let out a sigh of relief. He hated flying, he knew that very clearly now with how many planes he'd been on recently. He almost envied Sam for having been asleep through the majority of the flight, and he had to remind himself that Sam's sleep had not been natural.

Caleb picked them up in John's truck at the airport, and Sam managed to stay barely conscious enough to be dragged through and helped into the backseat.

Dean kept Sam sitting up, but leaning against him. He wasn't sure what made him freak out in the last car ride, but he didn't want a repeat of it.

"Did you give him more sleeping pills?" Dean asked. If John hadn't, he was going to start panicking. They didn't normally last this long.

"Crushed them up into two small bottles of water," John said. "Got him to drink more during the flight and a little back at the airport while you were in the restroom. It's easier when he's still half-asleep."

"Is that safe? How many did you crush up?" Dean asked.

He put his fingertips against Sam's neck and felt his pulse, glad to find it slower with sleep, but not abnormal.

"It's safer than having his mind put him back God knows where and freaking him out."

"It's that bad?" Caleb asked.

"Worse," Dean said. "Once the drugs starting leaving his system, he started having thrashing nightmares. He refused to take any pills, which is why Dad had to crush them up into water. He hasn't said a single word or made a single sound since waking up. It's like there's no one home inside his head most times, and when there is, it's only for a second and he shuts down again."

Dean hadn't meant to say that much, even if Caleb deserved to know it all. Even if Caleb deserved more than they could ever give him. But he couldn't stop listing off things that were wrong with Sam in an increasingly desperate voice, and he was sure that he didn't even know the full list (and he still couldn't allow himself to think about what he saw in the club).

"If we stayed too much longer, they probably would have wanted to move him to the psych ward," John said. "Or we risked Liu trying to find him."

"Should we take him to a hospital out by Jim?" Caleb asked. "I can call him up and ask where the closest one to him is."

John shook his head. "Let's just get him to Jim's and go from there. I don't think being trapped in another room is what he needs. Hospital or not."

"You really think we can handle this?" Caleb asked.

John laughed under his breath. Humorless. "I have to believe that we can. We got him in this mess to begin with."

The rest of the ride to Blue Earth was mostly silent, but Dean didn't mind the only sound being the steady breaths of Sam. He pulled him a little closer, careful not to press down on any of his injuries, and hoped that it would be enough for now because he didn't know how else he could help Sam.

Jim had the extra room Sam and Dean slept in as children set up for them by the time they got there. He watched from the side as Dean got Sam settled in one of the beds. He didn't say anything, but Dean understood what he thought just with a glance at him. He thought it wasn't fair. He thought Sam didn't deserve this.

He had all the same thoughts that Dean did, except for the blame. Dean wanted him to yell at him. He wanted John and Caleb to yell at him. Tell him how he screwed up. Tell him to look at what his mistakes did to Sam. He wanted them to solidify the guilt pooling inside of him. Punish him for not obeying orders. Punish him for not doing the most important job given to him: watch out for Sammy.

Instead, they treated him like he was as much of a victim as Sam.

He heard his dad call for him from the kitchen, so with a look over his shoulder at Sam to remind himself that he was still there, he left the room with the door open just a crack.

His dad sat at the kitchen table with Jim and Caleb, so Dean took an open seat.

He let John fill in Jim on what exactly happened since they asked him for help. Hearing it said aloud made it feel that much more real to Dean, and he did his best just to keep from throwing up. The details still made him sick, but he suspected that it was the knowledge that it all started with his poor decisions that pushed his stomach that much closer to the edge.

By the end of John's story (cold and calculating rehash of events, he kept the emotions locked away. This was too personal.), they were all left at the table with the same unspoken question lingering in the air.

Where the hell were they supposed to begin fixing this?

Author's Note: And that's the end... sort of. Thanks to the continued support through this story via reads, follows, favorites, and reviews. I hope that it lived up to expectations.

Since this is the last chapter, please leave a review and let me know what you thought!

The sequel will focus on Sam's recovery and will be titled Becoming Human and likely rated M. I hope to have the first chapter posted soon and hope to see you there!

Remember, this story would not have been created without M.J. Ellsworth and her prompt to start it off, along with her continued idea-bouncing with me throughout the story. Head over to her profile, read her work, and show her some love!