A/N: I'm sorry for all the reviews I have yet to answer. Life hasn't been my friend lately. I hope to make up for lost time over spring break. But I am always always grateful for and humbled by the people who read, review, favorite or recommend my stories.

The pain came and went, the chills and shaking, the nausea and fear and isolation rolled over him and around him and through him and never let him rest. Even in unconsciousness, phantoms of menace or agony or derision hounded him, lashing him and ridiculing him, shrieking in his brain that he was worthless and weak and an intolerable burden to anyone he wanted to love him and that he'd never, ever be able to atone for even one single moment of his life.

Give up, they pushed him. Say 'yes' and you'll never suffer again…

But the only word in his mind was Dean.

SPN*SPN*SPN*

Sam woke up in the panic room, on the same uncomfortable cot, in the same please-let-me-burn-these-clothes he'd been wearing for who knew how long. He was hot, thirsty, sweaty, achy, ashamed and very, very alone.

Well, okay, that last part wasn't quite true. Sam turned his head and saw Dean – young Dean – sitting on the floor at the door. As near as Sam could hash out in his brain, the Dean he was looking at was twelve or thirteen. He was dressed in jeans and worn sneakers, a short sleeved plaid shirt over a gray sweatshirt, and he was reading a comic book.

"Thought I was done hallucinating…" Sam said to himself.

"Nice to see you too, Sleeping Beauty." Dean answered without lifting his eyes from the comic book.

"Why are you here?" Was he here to mock Sam, or torment him, or berate him or add to his misery some other way?

"Gee, you think I might be taking care of my pain in the ass little brother?" Dean tossed the comic book aside and got to his feet. "You ready for some water, or are you gonna spaz out on me again?"

"Hallucinations can't bring water."

That seemed to catch Dean by surprise. But he answered, "Right. I'm a hallucination. Thanks for the update..." and walked to the table that held the pitcher of water and what looked like a crumpled rag. Sam turned his head on his blanket pillow to watch him pour some water into the glass and bring it toward him. Maybe the glass and water and pitcher were hallucinations too.

"All right…" Dean sat on the edge of the cot and slipped a hand under Sam's head to help him sit up enough. "Through the lips and over the gums, look out stomach, here it comes…"

Sam took a sip. It really was water, warm and tinny, but good. Good enough to want to drink more than Dean was willing to let him have. After a few swallows, he pulled the glass away and let Sam slip back to the cot.

"That's enough for now. You think I wanna be wearing that water? Think again." Dean set the glass on the floor and turned back to look at Sam. "So – you ready to blow this pop stand or what? 'Cause honestly Sammy, I've smelled dead bodies that didn't smell as bad as you do right now."

"Dean?" Sam couldn't process it. He had to be an hallucination.

"C'mon, Sammy…" Dean's voice turned gentle and he brushed his fingers through Sam's hair just like he used to. "If you want out of here, you need to give me something to work with. How're you feeling?"

How was he feeling? Coming out of Detox 2.0 to find his thirteen year old brother taking care of him? How should he be feeling?

"Confused. Really, really, confused."

"Okay." That was breathed out as much as spoken, and Dean picked up the glass and went back to the pitcher. He poured more water into the glass, poured some onto the rag, and brought them both back to the cot. The glass went on the floor again, he sat on the edge of the cot again, and used the rag to wipe Sam's face. "So - what are you confused about?"

"You." Even the water on his face felt good, washing away the sweat and spit and tear tracks.

"Me? What's to be confused about me?"

"How'd you even get here?" Even if Sam had time-traveled back far enough to be with teenage Dean, Bobby's panic room didn't exist back then.

"Y'ever hear of a door, genius?" Dean asked with a laugh. He looked the way Sam remembered him looking all those years ago, his hands felt the way Sam remembered them feeling, the way he kept his eyes on Sam's and how his mouth quirked into half a smile even while worry tugged between his eyebrows, how he knew to wipe the cool rag behind Sam's neck, and felt for fever while making it seem like he was only brushing the hair off Sam's forehead – it was Dean, it was all Dean taking care of his little brother.

"Dean?" Sam swallowed hard, afraid to hope. "Dean?"

"That's my name, don't wear it out."

"Is it you? I mean really you?"

Dean looked hard at him then.

"It's me, Sam. I promise, it's me."

Sam stared at Dean and suddenly remembered a freezing cold February in Minnesota, when he was eight and had stomach flu and Dad was stuck at Pastor Jim's in a blizzard and the only thing that kept Sam going through the pain and nausea and shame of getting sick all over himself was Dean being there every single second. This Dean was that Dean, right down to the clothes and comic book and tired cheerfulness.

His big brother Dean.

"Oh – oh God." Tears overflowed Sam's eyes and he tried to reach for Dean and grab hold of him, but his hands didn't seem to be working. "Dean – God, Dean – I've missed you. So much."

"Hey – hey. Calm down, Sammy." Dean put his hand over Sam's weakly struggling one and Sam grabbed hold as best he could. "I'm here, Sam. I'm not going anywhere. You gotta calm down if you wanna get out of here."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I screwed up so bad, Dean. Please – you have to help me."

"I'll help you, Sammy. You know I'll help you. But you gotta help me. Okay? You gotta relax."

He stroked his fingers through Sam's hair, brushing his bangs out of his eyes, and Sam nodded.

"Okay."

"Okay? You'll relax? You'll do what I say?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll do what you say." Sam agreed.

"Stick your tongue on a frozen phone pole in the middle of February?"

Sam heard the words, he knew what they meant, but it still took a minute for him to realize what Dean was actually asking him to do. When he did, he laughed, hard. Old or young, hallucination or not, Dean was still Dean.

"Never again."

"Good." Dean said and smiled. "Your brain's not as deep fried as I thought it was." He picked up the glass and helped Sam sit up a little again to have another drink. "You'll be outta here in no time…"

"Okay."

"Okay. Good. Get some sleep. That's the only thing that'll make time go faster around here."

Sam nodded and fidgeted a little on the thin mattress until his shoulder pressed against Dean's knee and then with that physical comfort, he closed his eyes and tried to let himself fall asleep. Dean stroked his fingers through Sam's hair a few more times, then just rested his hand on Sam's shoulder. Just like that time in Minnesota when Sam'd been so sick and in so much pain he'd actually cried once when Dean had been out of his sight too long, Dean was sticking close to keep him quiet and calm.

God, Sam had missed that.

They stayed that way awhile, Dean on the edge of the cot, Sam floating in and out of sleep, checking each time he floated awake that Dean was still there, either by shifting so that he could feel him there, or opening his eyes to see him. The one time he opened his eyes though, he caught Dean covering a yawn, and he could see the dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes. And Sam realized again that their whole lives had been that way – Dean always having to wear himself out to take care of Sam. Whether Sam deserved it or not.

How many times had he deserved it? How many more times would he deserve it?

"I'm sorry." He said. He'd closed his eyes, but tears trickled out of the corners.

"Sorry that you're not as awesome as I am? Yeah, I'd be sorry too."

"I'm sorry that you had to spend your life – waste your life – taking care of me."

"Who says I wasted it?" Dean asked, and he sounded so much like now-Dean that Sam opened his eyes and looked up at him. But it was still young Dean.

"I do. All your life, all you ever did was watch out for me and take care of me and keep me safe and all I ever did was –." Sam hated to even think what he'd done, how he'd abandoned Dean and hurt him, ignored him and everything he'd ever taught Sam. That couldn't happen again.

"Dean -." Sam pushed himself up on his elbow. " - no matter what – when Jake stabs me, you have to let me die. Don't save me, don't try to save me."

"Right, somebody tries to lay a finger on you and I'm supposed to hang back and let it happen. You are delirious. Here…" Dean picked up the glass. "Drink some more water."

"No, Dean. No -" Sam's argument got cut short when Dean pressed the glass to his lips and he had to swallow the water or wear it. "Dean – please." He kept on when Dean set the glass down again. "I don't want you to go to hell. Let me save you - let me die."

Dean shook his head.

"Not gonna happen, Sammy. I protect you. That's my job. End of discussion."

Sam dropped back down onto the cot and hit his head on the bedrail through the blanket pillow but it didn't hurt as much as knowing that Dean, this Dean, would still suffer and die and then suffer even more because of him, and he couldn't make it not happen.

"Hey, Sammy. C'mon. Y'gotta be careful." Dean switched so he was sitting at the head of the cot. He slid his arm under Sam and maneuvered so that he kept one arm around Sam's shoulders and under his head. With his other hand, he stroked Sam's hair. "Don't dent the furniture."

"Please." Sam cried and didn't try to stop it. "Please let me save you."

"Shh. Shh, now. C'mon. You've saved me like a million times already, man." Dean's fingers kept stroking through Sam's hair. "How many more times do you need to save me?"

"I need to save you from hell."

The only response Sam got was Dean wiping his hand under Sam's eyes and under his nose, and then wiping his hand on his jeans.

"You know I don't mind you crying, Sammy. But do you have to get snot-nosed on me? We already used up all the Kleenex."

"Dean – please. I don't want you to go to hell."

At first Dean didn't say anything again, then -

"You don't get it, Sammy? Hell isn't a place. Hell is losing you."

Sam heard the words but his brain still took its time processing them. When he realized what Dean was saying, more tears ran down his face and he pressed himself into Dean's side. Dean held him closer and kept stroking his hair. He started to rock a little, rocking Sam, and even though Sam was twice as old as this Dean was, he reached an arm out around Dean and held onto him. Held onto the big brother who still loved him and needed him and cared about him. He held on and fell asleep to his brother rocking him, and stroking his fingers through his hair, and whispering,

"I'm here, Sammy. I'm here…"

SPN*SPN*SPN

Dean left the panic room and closed the door quietly. Cas stood near the bottom of the stairs.

"How is he?"

"Hallucinating again. Talking like I haven't gone to hell yet, like I haven't made the deal yet. He finally fell asleep though, been sleeping about an hour now. I guess that's something."

"He's not hallucinating." Cas said. "I extrapolated a memory for him. One I hoped would comfort him and let him rest."

"You extrapolated a memory? What memory?"

"You were young, Sam I believe was eight or nine. You were alone in a motel room because of a snowstorm. Sam was astonishingly ill and you took care of him."

"Minnesota?" Dean realized all at once. "I remember that. One word - messy. Sam was so sick, I finally wrapped him up in the blankets and set him in the tub, so we didn't have to worry about the mattress, because every time he threw up he -."

Well, that was more information than maybe Cas needed.

"So – why that memory? How the hell could that memory get him to rest?"

Cas seemed surprised by the question.

"Sam feels that illness is when he was at his most infirm and unclean, yet you cared for him completely, with gentleness and affection, so I had him experience your presence now as your younger self, then. He saw you and reacted to you as you were you then. I hoped it would help him rest because it's a time in his life that he often returns to in memory when he wants to feel comfort and acceptance from you."

Well, that hurt.

"So – you're saying he doesn't feel that from me now?"

Cas started to answer, stopped to think about it, and started again.

"It is the memory that Sam returns to most often, and to the feelings of comfort and acceptance, security and reassurance, and simply belonging with you that he experiences when he contemplates it."

Well, that was a well-thought-out and extremely safe answer, wasn't it? And damn if it didn't still hurt that Sam found more comfort in a memory of Dean than in him actually being there.

"Do me a favor?" Dean asked Cas. "Turn 'young me' off."

SPN*SPN*SPN

When Dean went back into the panic room a few minutes later, Sam was exactly where he'd left him: turned on his side, curled up enough to fit his head and feet between the rails, and asleep. Sound asleep. Dean covered him with the extra blanket he'd brought, then lifted Sam's head to slip a pillow into place.

"Hey." Sam whispered out. His eyes were slitted barely open and he sounded barely awake.

"Hey, Sammy. Go back to sleep." Dean whispered back to him. "I'm just tucking you in. When you wake up for real, we'll get you back upstairs."

But Sam squeezed his eyes shut and opened them, like he was trying to make himself stay awake.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Y'member Minn'sota? I was sick n'you made me a bed inna tub 'cause all I kept doing was be'n sick?"

"Yeah, I remember." Dean sat on the edge of the cot. "Why're you asking about that?"

"Had a weird dream, 'bout you."

"Yeah? Weird how?"

"Y'r kid. That kid, fr'm Minn'sota." Sam slurred out exhaustedly. "Sit'n here, talk'n me. S'weird. Nice buh'weird."

Well, if that's what it took to comfort Sam, a memory or a dream of a memory, Dean'd ask Cas to turn it back on.

"It was a dream, Sam. Go back to sleep and you'll dream that me again."

But Sam shook his head as he nestled into the pillow and pulled the blanket tighter around himself.

"Naah, want you here. Y'r better."

"I am?" Dean had to ask, surprised. "How come?"

Sam took a deep breath and let it out and fidgeted until he was pressed against Dean's knee.

"He's you fr'm Minn'sota. Y'r my Dean."

The End