a/n – So I thought I was done with this story, but I kept getting asked for an epilogue, and I realized that maybe I had a little bit more to say. Not to mention how flattered I was that people wanted to read more.

But I have to say that Recuperating Dean was harder to write than Going Down Hill Quickly, Almost Dying Dean. It was a whole new concept for me. :-) But I hope I've done him justice. And I hope you enjoy my take as to what happened after the helicopter took off.

Lastly, thank you so much for the wonderful reviews on the last chapter. They were truly incredible, and I so appreciate every single one. Thanks to GS for pushing me along.

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He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

Epilogue

The helicopter ride to the hospital was a nail biter. Between the wind and the rain Sam could see nothing out the windows, could only feel the heavy movement of the bird as it swayed precariously from side to side. He was grateful when they touched down on the roof of the hospital, and even more thankful still that Dean had been out for the duration.

Sam waited in the helicopter while a swarm of doctors and nurses met them, tending to Dean as they talked all at once.

"Male, mid to late twenties. Field appendectomy. Temp 103.9."

The young paramedic was rattling off vital signs and Sam leaned his head back and closed his eyes, hoping the sound of the helicopter blades would drown out every word. It was out of his control now. His brother's care and survival depended on someone else. The thought brought with it relief and fear, and Sam found himself sitting on his hands to keep them from shaking.

"Dean Winchester."

Sam sat up at the sound of his brother's name. Someone at the Roadhouse must have given them that information. He tucked it away. Would have to remember when it came time to fill out the paperwork.

--------

It was almost an hour before a doctor came out to talk to Sam. And it wasn't until then that he realized he had been pacing the length of the waiting room the entire time.

"Are you family?" the doctor asked.

"I'm his brother. How is he?"

"He's dehydrated, blood count is low, temperature's up to 104. We've started a transfusion and IVs to counterbalance the fluid loss, and we've switched him to a stronger antibiotic than the one he was on," the doctor paused, giving Sam an opportunity to digest the information before continuing.

"The CT scan doesn't show any abdominal distress, which is good, but we do need to open him up again, as a precaution."

"What?" This was not what Sam was expecting.

"Because the initial surgery wasn't performed in a sterile environment, we can't ignore the possibility of infection. And with his temperature as high as it is, it's likely one has already taken hold. It's a precautionary measure."

"There's no…other way?"

The doctor shook his head. "I don't recommend it. If we wait and see, and something shows up later, he may end up in worse shape. Possibly not strong enough for another surgery."

"Is he strong enough now?"

"I think so."

Sam nodded. The breath knocked out of him. This time he knew what surgery meant. Understood its implications. Could see the scalpel going into his brother's abdomen. Could picture the blood as it trickled out. Could see the muscles and the tendons and the intestines.

"You okay?" The doctor had Sam by the elbow.

"I'm fine. Can I see him?"

"Sure. But he's heavily sedated. He won't know you're there."

"He'll know," Sam whispered.

"He's being prepped. But he'll be coming out those doors in about 10 minutes. You can see him then, on the way to the OR."

Sam found the nearest chair and eased himself into it, every bone in his body rebelling. He reached for his phone and dialed the Roadhouse, putting it away when he couldn't get a signal. Why he thought he could get through he didn't know. He had felt isolated and alone since his father's death. Why should this be any different?

---------

The surgery lasted longer than Sam had expected. And as terrifying as it had been to operate on his brother, nothing compared to the fear of the unknown as the minutes turned into hours.

By the time the doctor found Sam, to tell him everything had gone well until a ruptured blood vessel took the operation in a different direction, Sam was climbing the walls, expecting the worst.

Sam wondered if it was the same blood vessel, if he had missed something while following Bates' instructions, but kept the thought to himself. Instead, he listened as the doctor reiterated Dean's condition, as he assured him that he would recover. As he confirmed what he already knew, that his brother was one lucky bastard.

Lucky or not, the Winchester brand of appendicitis landed Dean in ICU, until his vital signs were stabilized and he didn't need constant monitoring.

The Roadhouse surgical team showed up the instant the rain stopped, while Dean was still in ICU, and Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd been so happy to see someone. With phone service still down everywhere, he had spent two days in the hospital bordering on insanity.

Betty was the first to reach him, putting her tiny arms around Sam as she asked him how he was.

"Have you slept?" she asked.

Sam fidgeted and Betty shook her head. "How's your brother?"

"Not bad," Dr. Bates answered for Sam, as he read Dean's chart. "I take it he hasn't been awake since he arrived?"

"No," Sam said.

"Good," Dr. Bates said absently, feeling Dean's neck for a pulse. "His body needs this down time. Any complications from the second surgery?"

"How did you know there was a second surgery?"

"There had to be, Sam. What we did was stop gap, in a kitchen. The possibility of infection was huge. Any doctor worth his salt would have opened him up again."

"Why didn't you say anything before we left?"

Bates looked Sam in the eye, his expression softening, and Sam wondered if that's how a grandfather might have looked at him if he'd ever known one.

"Never mind," Sam said, appreciating the fact that someone besides his brother had tried to protect him.

---------

"Hey." Sam had been watching Dean struggle to open his eyes for the last five minutes, and he was getting impatient.

Dean looked right through Sam, his eyes open for mere seconds, registering nothing before closing again for another couple of hours.

The next time Dean woke up he managed to keep his eyes open for several minutes, but said nothing, and Sam didn't think he knew where he was, he was so heavily drugged.

On his third attempt, the following morning, Dean registered a flicker of recognition and Sam forced a smile.

"About time," Sam said, attempting to add a lightness to his voice he didn't feel. Except for the visit from the Roadhouse crew, he had spent three days practically by himself, alone with his thoughts, his fears, his insecurities. No one to bounce anything off of. No one catch him if he fell. He had tried to put his brain in solitary confinement, to keep it from going anywhere it shouldn't, and had failed miserably. By the time Dean was ready to join him he was in dire need of salvation.

Dean looked at Sam, past him, around him, as he tried to get his bearings.

"You're in the hospital," Sam offered.

Dean swallowed, his mouth dry as he tried to speak. "Where's…psycho…Bates?" he finally managed.

Sam laughed and cringed at the same time, wondering how much Dean remembered of his Roadhouse ordeal.

"Home, probably. But he's been here." Sam looked at Dean, could still see pain in his eyes, and he wished he would go back to sleep. He couldn't deal with pain anymore. Didn't want to be in charge anymore.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You okay?"

Straight for the jugular, and Sam felt his breath constricting as the guilt consumed him.

"I'm good," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"Like…road kill."

"Road kill usually has better coloring," Sam said, feeling some of the tension leave his body. Why was it that his brother could always bring him back?

"Nice…bedside manner." Dean's eyes closed against his will. And Sam watched him for a long time. Unable to walk away. And he wondered when, if ever, the last few days would stop haunting him.

---------

"Hello," Sam whispered into his phone, not wanting to wake Dean.

"Sam, it's Ellen."

Sam looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Everything's good. How's Dean?"

"Better," Sam answered. "They made him walk up and down the corridor several times today. He sat for a while, ate real food. Well, jello and chicken broth. He even started whining about wanting to get out of here."

"Good. Any idea when they'll release him?"

"Doctor says a few days. Whatever that means."

"Great," Ellen said, hesitating. "I, um…Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you and Dean ever been to St. Louis?"

"Why do you ask?"

"This might be nothing, but some reporter from the local paper got wind of Dean's kitchen table appendectomy and wrote a story on it. He interviewed Bates…"

"Did he interview you?" Sam interrupted.

"No," Ellen said. "I didn't return his calls. You know I serve food out of that kitchen. I figure the health department's going to be all over me any day now as it is."

Sam made a face into the phone.

"Anyway," Ellen continued. "Ash was just screwing around online and it turns out the wires picked up the story. It's everywhere, with both your names in it. And he found someone's blog out of St. Louis speculating if it's the same Dean Winchester that was accused of torturing and murdering some girl."

Sam took a deep breath. "That doesn't make any sense. They have a body."

"What?"

"It was a shapeshifter." Sam offered. "He had Dean's skin. But Dean killed him."

"While he was in Dean's skin?" Ellen had heard stranger things.

"Yes."

"Well, the guy with the blog has come up with a police drawing that was apparently shown on television when they were looking for him."

"Damn."

"Sam," Ellen paused. "It looks like Dean."

"I know," Sam sighed, watching his brother sleep.

"Ash did some digging and the guy's got a following. He's a regular Mulder. Big time conspiracy guy. According to him there were things about the case that didn't fit."

"No shit."

"And he's already got the name of the hospital on the blog."

"Fuck." Sam rubbed his eyes, trying to keep the encroaching panic at bay.

"I don't like this, Sam. Not one bit. Someone can take a picture of Dean with a cell phone and the picture can be online within minutes. I hate to say it, but I think you need to get out of there."

"Yeah. You're right." Sam couldn't take his eyes off his brother. "Um, we don't have a car." Sam paused. "Calling a cab now…"

"No, no cabs, no motels. I can come get you, you can stay here."

"Ellen, once we leave it's a matter of time before someone else gets suspicious. The Roadhouse will be the first place they'll look."

"Bates?"

"Second place they'll look."

"Okay," Ellen said, thinking out loud. "Let me talk to Ash, figure something out. I'll call you back. Is Dean still on oxygen?"

"No, they took him off of it last night."

"Thank God. You need to get him up and dressed. Poor guy. But you need to be ready to get out of there."

Sam hung up the phone and ran his fingers through his hair, refusing to think about anything beyond where his brother's clothes were. Once he had them, he allowed himself to think about the next step, waking Dean.

"Hey," he whispered, shaking Dean by the shoulder. "Come on, man, I need you to wake up."

Dean stirred but kept sleeping.

"Dean, wake up." Sam shook him a little harder. "Come on. That's it, open your eyes."

"Whaaaat?"

"We need to get out of here."

Dean blinked several times, until Sam was in focus. "What? Why?"

"The story of your appendectomy made national news. And someone in St. Louis is digging around."

Dean let the information sink in, processing as quickly as his foggy brain would let him.

"Wait," Dean said, his voice sleepy, the painkillers slowing him down. "My name? How'd they..?"

"Probably Bates," Sam said. "Come on, I'll tell you what I know while we get you dressed."

"I can dress myself."

"Okay, good," Sam said, not about to argue. "Let me just get the IV out."

Sam could see that it was taking a superhuman effort for Dean to stay awake, to make sense of the situation, and he worked quickly as he took off the tape holding the IV in place.

"Sorry about this, man." Dean's hand was warm, and Sam ignored the nagging feeling that told him his brother needed whatever medicine he was about to take from him.

Dean clenched his jaw in anticipation, unconsciously sucking in his breath when Sam pulled out the needle. The prospect of pain was greater than the pain itself, and Dean relaxed immediately, wiping the blood that trickled out on his hospital gown and then rubbing the top of his hand to ease the stiffness.

Sam handed him his clothes and watched helplessly as Dean struggled to sit up and inch his legs over the side of the bed, contorting his face in sync with Dean's own pained expressions.

"Dude," Dean snapped, the frustration evident on his face. "Go be a lookout or something. When's Nurse Ratchet due to wake me up and tell me I need to get some sleep?"

"She was here about 20 minutes ago, so probably not for a while."

"Well, go keep yourself busy somewhere."

Sam turned around, his back to Dean, refusing to leave the room. He knew Dean wasn't up to getting dressed and high tailing it out of there. But he also knew his brother had to do it his way. He would stay close. Just in case.

Dean untied the hospital gown from behind and let it drop off his shoulders and onto his lap, unable to stop the shivering that ran down his arms. As quickly as he could manage, he pulled the t-shirt over his head, biting his lip to keep anything other than his breathing from Sam. The effort to pull his hands over his head left him in pain, and he waited a few seconds before putting on the long sleeve flannel shirt Sam had given him. He looked around for his jacket but didn't see it. He was so cold.

Attempting to put on his sweats was more than Dean could manage on his own, and the slight groan that slipped from his lips was enough to make Sam turn around.

"You okay?"

"Fine," Dean spat out, visibly shaken. "I can't do this on my own," he admitted, angry and exasperated. "Every time I bend down I feel like the incision's going to split open."

"Here, let me help." Sam helped with the sweats, allowing Dean to lean heavily on him when he had to stand. He was relieved when he settled him back on the bed to put his socks and shoes on.

"Where are we going?" Dean asked, his voice tight, his face drained of color.

"Not sure. Ellen's going to call us back."

"We can't go back there."

"I know."

Dean was shivering and Sam was trying to get him to lie down again.

"Dude, what are you doing?"

"There's no use having you sit up until we're ready to go. Lie back while I get your shoes and socks on." To Sam's surprise Dean didn't argue, and he reminded himself to stay in the moment.

Sam brought the covers up to Dean's chest and watched him work to keep his eyes open.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" Dean said, and Sam recognized the words as his brother's attempt to stay awake.

"What's that?" Sam asked, working on Dean's socks.

"You know that cute little candy striper Kendall promised me a sponge bath tomorrow."

"Right, 'cause she's got to be what, 16?" Sam had moved to the shoes.

"She'll be 17 in April. She's an Aries." Dean's words were beginning to slur.

"Jailbait," Sam countered, not fighting his brother's exhaustion.

"She's a professional…Sammy…get your mind out of the gutter." Dean's shoulders relaxed, his head rolled off to the side, and Sam pulled the blanket up to his neck. No use torturing him anymore until Ellen called with a plan of action.

---------

Sam had put his phone on the lowest setting, and still it startled him when it rang twenty minutes later.

"Ellen?"

"Are you ready?"

"Yeah, we're ready." Sam looked at Dean, sound asleep, dreading what was coming.

"Okay, you need to get downstairs. There's a black Buick LeSabre waiting to pick you up just as you exit the main doors."

"Who's picking us up?"

"Bates."

"What? No, we can't do that to him. He's already done enough."

"He's all we've got, Sam. He's taking you to a friend's cabin a couple of hours north. You'll be fine there for a few days. Until Dean's up to hitting the road. Besides," Ellen added, "I'll feel better knowing Bates is around in case Dean needs anything."

"Me too," Sam said under his breath. "What did you tell him?"

"The truth."

"What?"

"Sam, he's 95. He's heard everything. And the truth is so preposterous he knew I would've never made it up."

Oh God, Sam thought, Dean's going to love this.

"Okay," he said, after mulling over their options and realizing they had none. "We'll be downstairs as quickly as we can."

Sam hung up and closed his eyes, willing his mind and his body to align, for each one to tell the other what it had to do in order to get his brother out of there without causing a stir, without causing him any more pain.

"Hey, Dean, come on, wake up."

Dean woke with a start, and immediately tried to sit up, grimacing with the effort.

"Take it easy." Sam had a hand on his shoulder. "This isn't a marathon. Take your time."

"What's going on?"

Sam froze, his eyes looking deep into his brother's as he tried to convey the urgency of the moment, their predicament, without having to start over.

To his credit, Dean only took a minute to remember. To let the chill curse through his body. "Where's my jacket?" he asked.

Sam helped Dean put on his leather jacket and then looked out into the corridor, making sure no one was in sight before helping Dean off the bed and to the door.

Luckily, Dean's room was a safe distance from the nurse's station, and they were able to turn the corner without being spotted.

Dean was walking as fast as he could, and Sam was biting his nails as they made their way to the elevator in what he was certain was slow motion.

They arrived at the elevator just as the doors opened and a young doctor stepped out, startling them both. Dean didn't skip a beat. "I'm going to miss her so much," he said, his voice an exaggerated sob.

"I know you loved her, but you know she's in a better place."

Dean managed a shuddering breath, and it wasn't until they were safely behind the elevator doors that Sam wondered if the broken sob had been part of the act. Dean was pale, and even with the two shirts and jacket he was shivering.

"Quick thinking there," Sam said, for the time being ignoring his brother's obvious discomfort.

Dean nodded, his eyes closed, his body leaning against the back wall of the elevator. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"Some cabin a couple of hours from here," Sam offered, holding back the rest of the information, thankful when the elevator doors opened.

They continued the grieving spouse act until they were past security and outside, the Buick LeSabre within easy view.

"There it is," Sam said, taking Dean by the elbow.

"Dude, I got it."

Sam knew he didn't, not really, but he fell back behind him, ready to catch him if he had to.

"Who's picking us up?" Dean asked.

Sam pretended he didn't hear him.

Dean peered inside when they had reached the car, turning to Sam with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Please tell me grandma isn't driving the getaway car."

"They know the truth," Sam whispered.

"What? Whose great idea was that?"

"Just get in the car."

"Like I have a choice."

Dean let Sam hold open the door for him as he slid into the back seat, smiling awkwardly at Betty when she turned to face him. Dr. Bates turned around just as Sam got in.

"How are you boys doing?" he asked.

"Good," Sam replied. "Thank you. I mean, thanks for picking us up like this."

"Yeah, thanks," Dean mumbled, once again reminded of his incapacity to take care of himself. Of his brother.

"How are you feeling, Dean?"

"Fine."

Dr. Bates looked at him and smiled before turning around. He would expect nothing less from the young man that had defied logic and survived the appendectomy from hell.

"There's a blanket there if you need it," he said, leaving out Dean's name, certain one of the two would figure it out. Out of habit and concern he had spoken to Dean's doctor earlier that evening, so he knew what medications he was on, that his blood pressure was still low, and that he had a low grade fever he couldn't shake.

Dr. Bates had agreed to pick them up against his better judgment. And only did so when he realized that nothing was going to stop the brothers from taking care of each other, from leaving the hospital on foot if they had to. At least this way he could keep an eye on them until they were ready to be on their own.

Dean leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes, and Sam could see he was uncomfortable. So far Dean had only managed to be out of bed for a few minutes at a time, and the thought of his brother forced to sit through a two hour drive had Sam worried.

They were barely out of the hospital parking lot when Sam realized Dean couldn't stop shaking from the cold. He took the blanket and wrapped it around his brother's body, watching silently as Dean searched for a position that he could tolerate. Sam was grateful for the silence, for the fact that Bates and Betty pretended not to notice. For the fact that Dean accepted the warmth of the blanket as he settled back and fell asleep.

---------

The chugging sound of the train drowned everything but Dean's frantic yelling as he searched every compartment for his family. They had just been there, talking to him. They were laughing. His mom was smiling. His dad was reading Sammy a story.

"Where are they? Where's my family?"

The conductor looked at him, a sad expression on his face. "You came on board alone."

"No. No. I was with them. They were with me. My family. Where are they?"

"Come with me. We're about to start the operation."

"Not without my family."

"You have no family. You have no one. You are alone."

The conductor held up a syringe and smiled. Crooked yellow teeth protruded from his lips and Dean forced himself to look away from them, to look the conductor in the eyes as he pleaded for his family. But the yellow light was blinding, swallowing the conductor, the passengers, everything in its sight.

He had to stop it. Had to stop the yellow light. He pulled the alarm chain above his head and heard the screeching of the tracks before he went flying through the air, away from the light, away from everyone and everything in its path. Into darkness.

Dean woke with a start, his hand against the back of the front passenger seat, stopping him from falling. He felt Sam's hand on his back before he remembered where he was, before the yellow light disappeared into his subconscious. Before he could catch his breath.

"Hey," Sam whispered, waiting for Dean to come back, to lift his head and tell him he was with him.

Dean groaned and pushed himself back against the seat, the blanket on his lap, a hand across his stomach, his eyes tightly closed as he searched his brain for answers. And Sam knew he wasn't quite with him.

Dr. Bates turned slowly and made eye contact with Sam, his gaze wanting to know if they should pull over, if he needed to do something. Sam shook his head and Dr. Bates nodded, the concern on his face impossible to hide.

"We're almost there," Bates said, the words bringing Dean to the present, to the car and the cloying feeling of claustrophobia.

Dean looked at Sam, seeing him for the first time since the nightmare, relief flooding his insides at the sight of his brother. At the family he had left.

Betty had exited the highway and Sam noticed they were starting up a mountain road following signs to Mt. Laramie.

"Are we in Wyoming?" he asked.

"Just a little ways past the state line," Betty answered. "We have some friends that have a cabin up here. We usually come a few times a year."

Sam could see Dean's jaw clench every time Betty took a turn. And he wondered for the first time if someone in her nineties should be driving. She was going no more than 10 miles an hour, practically stopping every time the road curved.

"How much further?" Sam was asking for both of them, his stomach turning every time Betty slowed down.

"It's not far. About six miles up the mountain."

Dean pressed his face against the window, hoping the cold against his skin would keep the impending nausea at bay.

Sam watched Dean struggle, torn between doing something and honoring his brother's privacy. He knew Dean was tired of being sick, of being the patient. So Sam waited, forcing himself to ignore every turn, every curve, every sudden stop as Betty inched her way up the mountain. Until she stopped suddenly, a deer grazing in her path, and he could no longer ignore the look on Dean's face.

"Betty, pull over."

"What?"

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "But I'm really car sick and I think I'm going to throw up."

Betty found a turnaround further up and pulled in, stopping the engine just as the brothers bolted from the car. She was about to get out, to see if Sam was okay, when her husband stopped her.

It took everything Dean had to get out of the car and close the door behind him, and he wondered how he was going to get his legs to stop shaking long enough for him to get away from the car, far enough away that he could be sick in peace.

Once again Sam read his mind, and Dean found himself leaning heavily into him as they made their way to a clearing behind several large boulders.

By the time they stopped the cold had allowed Dean to focus on something besides the churning of his stomach, and the terrible urgency to throw up was gone. All that was left was a queasy feeling he could live with.

"You okay?"

Dean nodded, his eyes shut as he leaned against a boulder. "Thanks," he finally managed.

"I figured it was my turn for a little attention," Sam joked.

"Amen."

They stood in silence, for several long minutes, neither one wanting to get back in the car.

"Why isn't Norman driving?" Dean finally asked, eyes still closed.

"My guess is he can't."

"I can't get back in there."

"I know. Another couple of miles and I would've lost my lunch."

Dean grimaced at the thought of food, the jello he'd had for dinner very close to the surface.

"Can't do it, Sammy. I will kill myself first."

Dean opened his eyes and Sam was pretty sure he meant it.

"They're so nice. What are we gonna say?"

"I don't know, but you've got to take over for her or I'm going to grab the wheel and plunge us down the mountain."

"All right, fine. I'll think of something."

Dean pushed himself away from the boulder, every bone in his body chilled as he forced his body forward. He could see Sam hovering out of the corner of his eye, and he ignored him, refusing to give him anything else to worry about.

Dr. Bates was standing by the car, waiting for them. "You all right, Sam?" he asked, his eyes giving Dean a quick scan.

"Yeah, fine, thanks. Hey, Doc," Sam stammered.

"Sam," the doctor interrupted. "Betty's tired, she's not used to driving this road at night, and I've been banned from driving in all 50 states. You mind taking over?"

Their eyes connected again and Sam was certain he loved Dr. Bates.

"Dean, why don't you sit in the front. That way Betty and I can cuddle in the back."

The visual was more than Dean could handle, but for an instant he could see why Sam was completely enamored with the old man.

---------

If it was possible, it was colder inside the cabin than outside, and Dean was beginning to wonder if he would ever be warm again. Betty turned on the heater as soon as she walked in and Dr. Bates started a fire in the fireplace, urging Dean onto the couch as soon as he was done. Dean wanted nothing more than to sit by the fire, but his natural instinct was to rebuff the attention and deny himself what he needed. Bates waited until Sam was out of the room, unloading the car, before speaking to Dean.

"Listen," he began, his voice gentle but firm. "I understand that your priority right now is to keep your brother from worrying anymore than he already is, but I also know, from speaking to your doctor earlier today, that you have no business being out of the hospital."

Dean flinched, but stayed put, and Dr. Bates continued, undeterred by the look of contempt staring him down.

"I cannot stand by and let you be irresponsible about your care."

"I'm fine," Dean interrupted, his jaw clenched, the incipient anger unchecked.

"You have a temperature, and you were dizzy when you got out of the car, because your blood pressure still isn't where it should be."

Dean took a deep breath. He wanted to deck the guy, but when he looked Bates in the eye he couldn't deny the assessment. Why was it so hard for him to accept help? To admit he needed it?

"Sam's a mess," was all he could say. That's right, Dean, turn it around, make it about Sam.

"You don't give him enough credit," Bates replied. "But while you figure that one out, you take it easy or I'll have him on your ass."

You're good, Dean thought. "Sam's going to worry no matter what."

"I can't help that," Bates said, his voice softening. "That's something you two will have to see a therapist about some day."

"We'd have to kill him when we were done," Dean mused.

"Maybe. Maybe he'd commit suicide and save you the trouble."

Dean laughed in spite of himself.

"Now," Bates said, "get on the couch, put your feet up, while I go get you an antibiotic and a pain killer. And as soon as the rooms are ready you need to lie down."

Realizing he'd just been blackmailed by a 95 year-old that could probably take him down, Dean nodded and did as he was told, secretly grateful to be off his feet.

Dean watched Sam interact with Betty, listened to him make meaningful small talk, in an easygoing manner that betrayed none of the nerves he had seen the last couple of days, and he wondered when his little brother had grown up. And what he had missed at the Roadhouse that had precipitated the change.

Some of his own memories from the Roadhouse were etched in his brain, embedded there for eternity, a cruel injustice on top of the assault. The sound of Sam's voice pleading with Bates to do the surgery, the shaking of his brother's arms when he tried to shield him from the pain, the look in Sam's eyes right before he went under. They were images that fought each other for attention every time he closed his eyes. Images he couldn't justify with his father's last words.

He had lived with those words screaming in his head every day, every hour, for weeks, but now they were being crowded out by an even stronger presence. By the image of his brother as he moved mountains to save him. It was impossible for him to reconcile that image with the one his father had painted.

Dr. Bates interrupted the schizophrenic thoughts with a glass of water and a couple of pills, and Dean was suddenly grateful for the ache in his side, for the distraction from the screaming. He swallowed the pills without looking at them, without asking what they were, hoping they contained a magic ingredient that would force a dreamless sleep until he felt better. Until everyone stopped treating him like an invalid. Until he was well enough to put the walls up and move on.

Dean leaned back and closed his eyes, effectively keeping the doctor from hovering. From looking too closely and making accurate medical assessments he didn't want to hear. Luckily, he was asleep within minutes, and he vaguely noticed when Sam dragged him into the bedroom an hour later.

For the next two days Dean hid inside his head. Sleeping whenever he could, pretending he was sleeping when he couldn't. Eating the bare minimum to keep Sam and Bates off his back. And while the forced rest did his body good, the extra time spent with his thoughts did nothing to quell the uneasy feeling that had been brewing for days. The feeling of helplessness brought on by the debilitating memories. By the fact that something as simple as appendicitis had brought him to his knees. By the constant reminder that he was human.

On the third day the introspection was more than he could bear and Dean was ready to leave. To hit the road in search of trouble. In search of the elusive peace he found when he hunted. That undeniable feeling of strength he got every time they found something evil and destroyed it. He needed to feel something other than fear.

Dean found Dr. Bates sitting on the front porch, a bottle of scotch next to him, a glass in his hand.

"Kinda early to be hitting the bottle there, Doc."

"It's five o'clock somewhere," Bates replied. "Care to join me?"

"To bond? Or to have a drink?"

"I figure you could use a drink."

Bates almost laughed at the look on Dean's face.

"What about all that don't drink when you're on medication stuff?" Dean could have kicked himself the minute the words left his mouth.

"Are you planning on using heavy machinery? Go get yourself a glass before I change my mind. And Betty gets back."

Dean walked faster than he had managed in nearly a week, and was back on the porch within seconds.

"So you scared of Betty?" he teased.

"Hell yes," Bates replied, pouring Dean more scotch than he knew he should.

"Where is she? And Sam?"

"They went into town. Betty wanted to get some groceries, get her hair done. Sam offered to drive her. Actually," Bates added, "I paid him."

Dean felt the scotch burn his throat and ignored it, preferring to focus on the warm sensation as it filled his stomach.

"Come on, what was all that talk the other night about cuddling in the back seat?"

"Oh she's cuddly all right." Bates joked. "But the damn woman's got me taking herbs to improve my memory and my stamina. Scotch doesn't fit into her new found regimen."

"Wanting to improve your stamina can't be all bad," Dean mused, not sure he wanted to pursue the conversation.

"Improving my stamina means I can take the trash out without having to take a break."

"You showed stamina at the Roadhouse," Dean offered, unable to keep the memories away for any length of time.

"If you only knew," the doctor said, staring straight ahead, lost in his own memories of that fateful day. "I swear when you woke up in the middle of Sam…"

"What?"

Dean's tone brought the doctor back to the present, to the harsh reality he couldn't believe he had just exposed.

"In the middle of what?" Dean asked, not about to let it go.

Dr. Bates turned to face Dean, his expression solemn. "I'm sorry, Dean," he said. "I can't believe I just said that."

"What did you say? When I woke up in the middle of Sam what?" Dean's heart was racing. What else did Sam endure that he didn't know about? That he didn't remember?

Dr. Bates sighed, unable to come up with a satisfactory lie, not really wanting to. "We ran out of nitrous oxide when Sam was closing you up," he finally admitted. "So Sam had to, well, actually, no, Ellen ended up finishing the sutures. Sam couldn't…" Dr. Bates paused, the memory vivid inside his head. "Sam chose to be with you. To get you through it."

Dean instinctively wrapped an arm across his stomach and shuddered. "I…I don't remember that," he said, his voice low as he searched his memories.

"No, you wouldn't. We were still pumping versed into you at that point. It would keep you from remembering."

"Sam." Dean wasn't aware he'd said his brother's name out loud as he added one more unthinkable image to the array that was already keeping him awake at night. He took a large gulp of scotch and leaned back, his hand still clutching his stomach.

"Dean, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Doc, I'm glad I know."

"Sam's not going to be happy."

"Sam's in love with you," Dean teased. "Besides, I'm not going to say anything."

"Why not?"

"What good would it do? He would just worry more than he already is."

"I get it," Dr. Bates said, the tone in his voice hard for Dean to decipher. "This way you can do the worrying for both of you. Hang on to the burden all on your own."

Dean looked at the doctor, his expression softening when he looked in his eyes. "It's my job to protect him, not the other way around."

"Sam gets that. But by shutting him out you're not protecting him."

"What are you, Dr. Phil?"

Dr. Bates raised his eyebrows. "You watch Dr. Phil?"

"No," Dean paused. "I, um, saw him on Oprah once."

"I won't tell anyone," Dr. Bates laughed. "Now we're even. You keep my secret, I'll keep yours."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping their scotch, until Bates decided he had more to say, and he was too old to keep his mouth shut.

"You know, Dean," he began. "I'm no expert on post traumatic stress disorder."

"You gotta be kiddin' me," Dean interrupted.

Bates was unfazed, and kept talking. "Like I said, I'm no expert on PTSD, but I would think that if ever a situation was traumatic, those hours at the Roadhouse would be at the top of the list."

Dean tried to interrupt again but Bates put his hand up to stop him.

"Not just for you, but for Sam as well." Now he had Dean's attention. Bates felt uneasy using Sam to get to Dean, but what he recalled of battle scarred war heroes quickly overrode any guilt. "You can't discount emotional trauma – and God knows Sam went through hell and back. And he's still worried about you."

Dean took another drink. "Sammy – he worries all the time."

"And you shut him out?"

"Sounds about right." The scotch was definitely helping the conversation along.

"Why?"

Beating around the bush, speculation, Dean could deal with. Straightforward, not so much.

"It's easier that way."

"For who?"

Good question, Dean thought, since nothing had felt easy lately. Had anything ever felt easy to him? Maybe when he was four.

Bates didn't wait for Dean to answer. "Sam's only saving grace is the fact that he doesn't want to deal with this on his own. He's smart enough to know he needs to talk about it."

"And he's been talking to you?" Dean wasn't surprised. Was actually glad Sam had been able to talk to someone.

"And Betty. A little. But we can only help so much. We're not the ones he really needs to talk to."

Dean didn't know if it was the scotch or the dull ache in his side he couldn't shake, but something was tugging at his defenses, screaming at him to let it out, to release the burden that was weighing him down.

"I don't know what to say to him," Dean finally admitted. "I feel like I failed – to protect him. To keep him from hurting anymore than he already was." Dean couldn't mention his father, whose loss had started the cycle of pain to begin with. He was certain that any reference to his father would send him over the edge.

"It's not as if you had a choice on the appendicitis, Dean. You can't always control your body."

"I can't afford to be out of control. Sam can't afford it."

"And because of that you were there for Sam every step of the way," Bates replied. "I don't know how, but when he needed you most you were there. You did not let him down. Hell, the fact that you survived is a testament to what you're willing to do for your brother."

"I can't close my eyes without seeing the agony he went through that day. What I put him through."

Dr. Bates treaded lightly. "Do you ever close your eyes and think about your own pain?"

"Sometimes," Dean admitted, staring at his empty glass. "But I can deal with that. I can't deal with Sam's."

Bates noticed Dean wrap both arms across his stomach, his body language betraying the façade he was trying so hard to believe, to make everyone believe. That he was fine. That it was all about Sam. That the physical torture he went through was gone and forgotten.

"I'm guessing that in your line of work, you see a lot of things."

"About that," Dean interrupted.

Bates held a hand up. "No need to defend or explain. Or deny. Ellen's too smart to make something up like that."

"That's fair," Dean mused. "How about some more scotch then?"

"I'm afraid you've already had more than you should."

Dean was disappointed, the idea of obliterating his existence with alcohol a passing fancy that was suddenly very appealing.

"Then maybe you can double up on the pain killers tonight," Dean said. "You know, get me past the REM phase of sleep a little quicker. Into that space where nothing exists."

Dr. Bates scratched his head, not sure how he came to care about these boys as much as he did. He worried about what they did for a living. About the fact that they existed in a world where they had to watch each other's backs constantly. In a world that had just thrown them a curve ball they never saw coming. He had seen enough to know they would always look out for each other, but he worried that Dean, the protector, would die before showing any vulnerability again. And that of course, would destroy them both.

"How are the nightmares?" Bates asked, pouring himself another scotch, giving Dean a thimble full.

Dean looked at Bates, a slight look of defeat on his face. "Did Sam tell you?"

"He's concerned about you," Bates said, unable to lie.

"I know," Dean answered, his voice low as he retreated inside his head. He couldn't recall a specific nightmare, only the fact that they were constant, and that they all took place in the Roadhouse, amidst the agony and the torture and the pain and the hope and the fear. And they all ended the same, in a blinding yellow light that obliterated everything in its path. The good, the bad, indiscriminate in its choices. And left him shaking, breathless, numb.

"You want to talk about them?"

"I can't," Dean said. "Unless, in your medical opinion, you think more scotch might help loosen me up."

"My medical opinion would have you in the hospital," Bates offered. "All kinds of things pumping into you. An IV filled with scotch would not be one of them."

Bates knew Dean was done talking, and it was time to stop pushing. He was surprised he had said as much as he had, certain the combination of the alcohol and the pain killers had weakened his resolve and the misguided notion that he had to be a superhero in the eyes of everyone.

Dean drank the tiny bit of scotch Bates had poured the second time and leaned back, the cold air on his face, his eyes open as he tried to stay away from the haunting images that were constantly swimming in his head. After a while his brain gave up the fight and his body won, his eyes closing against his will as he fell into a fitful sleep. He never heard Sam and Betty pull up, never noticed the blanket Betty draped across him. Never saw the yellow light coming.

---------

"Dean! Dean! Wake up. It's all right. Wake up." Sam gripped Dean's shoulders as his brother took in huge gulps of air, his hands flailing as if pushing someone away.

"Leave me alone," Dean yelled, eyes closed, still fighting for peace.

"Dean, wake up!" Sam shook him hard, grimacing at the look of pain that crossed his brother's face.

And then it stopped, the desperate sucking for air became a low shuddering wheeze, the angry movements a slight quiver. The clenched jaw relaxed as Dean opened his eyes, focused on nothing as he took in his surroundings. As he gathered himself tightly against his own body, the realization of where he was a harsh reminder of where he'd been.

"Hey," Sam was trying to control his own shaking as he slowly released Dean's shoulders, afraid to let go. Afraid not to.

Dean watched Sam with a penetrating look so raw and so naked, that Sam flinched, unable to do anything but stare back. An attempt to look inside, decipher what was going on so he could help his brother. But as quickly as the soul opened, it was closed again, the protective front returning as soon as Dean got his bearings.

"You okay?"

Dean nodded and swallowed hard, the taste of scotch in his mouth a bitter reminder of his condition, his predicament.

Sam saw Dr. Bates standing in the doorway, waiting for instructions. Waiting to see if he was needed. Sam shook his head and watched him disappear into the cabin before turning to face his brother.

"You want to talk about it?" Sam felt like a broken record. How many times over the last three days had he asked the same thing?

Dean shook his head. But then he saw the look of dejection in Sam's eyes, and he felt compelled to throw him a bone. Anything to get that look out of his head.

"I can't remember," Dean whispered, finding it hard to control his voice.

"Any of it?"

"Yellow light," Dean offered, the words exhausting him.

"There was a yellow light?"

Dean nodded and closed his eyes, leaning his head back as he tried to ignore the pounding in his chest.

"Was there anything else?"

Dean wanted so desperately to help his little brother. To help himself. But he didn't know where to begin. Why was it so hard for him to reach out? To let someone in? What were these dreams telling him that he couldn't figure out when he was awake?

"I don't know, Sam…" Dean caught the anger in his voice and stopped. He was in this place a week ago, on their way to the Roadhouse, his brother's presence a painful reminder of his inability to deal. With his father's death. His grief. Life. And that was before Sam had shown his mettle. An undeniable strength he had never known was there. And for the life of him Dean couldn't go back to that place. To the space and time that was so painful he would forget to breathe as easily as he could avoid his brother and everything he stood for.

Dean looked at Sam and tried again. "I'm having a hard time," he began, forcing himself to breathe, "getting past that…day."

Sam nodded, afraid of opening his mouth for fear of saying the wrong thing and having Dean shut down again.

"Every time I shut my eyes I see something new, something awful. I see you. I see me, incapable of protecting you." The words were the most hard-fought Dean had ever said, and he had to force himself to stay where he was, in mind and body.

"Dean, you can't always protect me. Sometimes you need protecting too. You're human."

Dean bit his lower lip, an attempt to ground himself in the moment. "It scares me to think that," he said, his voice soft and measured.

"That you're human?"

"I've spent my life hunting evil, monsters, and the thing that almost does me in…"

"Is what separates you from what we hunt," Sam interrupted.

Dean thought about that for a minute, the concept too big for him to grasp all at once.

"It's the same thing that saved you," Sam continued. "It's humanity. It's Bates."

"Bates didn't save me, you did."

"Without Bates I would have killed you."

"Without you I would have died."

Dean waited while the words reached his brother, while they made their presence known. This was as far as he could go. His heart pounding as he allowed himself the luxury of feeling. As he let his brother in ever so briefly, for a glimpse inside his tortured soul.

"I get that," Sam said softly as he let the words sink in. "But you seem to forget that it's a two way street."

"It's not that I forget," Dean said, his breath catching in his throat, the desire to run stronger than before. "It's that I never knew."

The words slammed Sam hard against his chest, but he caught himself quickly and Dean didn't notice, he was so wrapped up in his own thoughts. His own insecurities.

Sam ignored everything he wanted to say – that he was shocked and stunned and hurt that his brother didn't know how he felt about him, because it wasn't what Dean needed. What he needed was permission to let go. A release of the guilt and the fear that was eating him alive.

"Dean," Sam finally managed. "I've spent my entire life being looked after. By Mom, by Dad, by you. Hell, even by Jessica, because I was a mess when we met," Sam paused, making sure his brother was listening before continuing. "And I know you're worried about me, about what I went through that day, and I'd be lying if I told you it didn't shake me to the core. But I'm so glad that I was there for you. I'm actually pretty proud of myself."

Sam's words caught Dean by surprise. Maybe that's what he noticed the night they arrived at the cabin. That maturity he hadn't seen before. It hadn't occurred to him that his brother had felt a victory, a triumph, as a result of that day. All he could see was pain and anguish. Maybe it was his own he had tried to project onto Sam. Dean instinctively wrapped his arms tightly against his body, the sheer weight of the realization catching him off guard.

"You okay?"

Dean nodded, the urge to put up the walls hard to resist. "So I gave you something to be proud of," he finally managed, the thought swirling in his head.

"And I gave you another scar."

"Doesn't seem fair."

"It never is," Sam mused. "In love and war. In the Winchester household."

"That household has dwindled," Dean said, thoughts of his father, of loss, never far from the surface.

"Yeah, but what's left is a force to be reckoned with."

Suddenly Dean could see Sam as more than the kid brother he had to protect at all costs. His father's words were still there. His fear for lack of understanding was still there. But something else was clamoring for attention. It was a newfound respect for all that he held dear and close and in his heart. For all that he had left. For Sam.

"I need to get out of here," Dean finally said.

"I know. Betty and Doc offered to take us to the Volkswagon whenever we're ready."

"I'm ready."

Sam nodded, unable to hide the skepticism that crossed his face.

"Dude, I am so ready."

"I spoke to Ash today. The demon's not in Palo Alto anymore."

"Where is he?"

"He doesn't know. There are no signs of him. Which is too bad. A drive to California would've been good."

"I thought you said you wouldn't go back there."

"That was before," Sam said, searching his brother's face. Hoping he could see the release he could hear in his voice.

"Before what?"

"Before I knew you had 10 lives. When I thought my emotions would get you killed."

"And now?"

"Now I know you're not going anywhere no matter what I do to you."

"I guess once you operate on your brother on a kitchen table, the sky's the limit."

"How's your spleen? You attached to it?"

Dean couldn't help but smile as he leaned back and closed his eyes, relieved when the images came and he didn't shudder. Didn't flinch. He understood now that they would never go away, would only fade with time, and would forever serve to remind him that he was human. That he could hurt and bleed and still protect his brother. Still hunt evil and make the world a better place.

FIN

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This is definitely it. Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

PLEASE let me know your comments. I would so appreciate them.