Forgot to disclaim last time: Yikes. Sam and Dean? Not mine, never have been, never will be, same for Supernatural (not that this story can really be considered Supernatural-like, lol). . .No Wincest, just two brothers who are both hot and awesome. Some colorful language, some sick Dean, you know my drill by now. . .

Chapter 2. Thanks to everyone who read Chapter 1 and responded. I can’t even begin to explain what’s going on in my head with this particular story right now – other than, some of the inspiration came from those wonderful pictures of Jensen with his hand on Jared’s heart (though my story has it in reverse); my own seven year-old announcing that he “likes hearts,”(what an odd yet awesome thing to say, lol) and the fact that if this fifth season could very well be our last with the Boys, I may be – beginning to grieve. This might be me expressing that grief. . .

“You’re not going to let me die in peace, are you?”

“I’m not going to let you die, period.”

/////

The first time Sam saved Dean’s life because he caught that Dean’s heart wasn’t acting right was when Dean was eighteen and Sam fourteen.

There’d been plenty of times before that, when they were younger, where Sam had noticed Dean wasn’t doing well, often before Dean himself noticed it – or at least was willing to admit it – and had pulled the human stethoscope trick. In reality, Sam did it fairly often, checked Dean’s heartbeat: always when Dean seemed abnormally tired or like he might be coming down with something, or showing signs that something was going on with him – weird breathing or his fingers or ankles swelling or whatever, things that Sam had become used to noticing over the years and therefore, told him that Dean likely had something going on. But sometimes, Sam would check on him even when Dean was seemingly fine, nothing weird or out-of-the-ordinary going on and whether it was to reassure himself or what, Dean didn’t know but it wasn’t unusual for him to be sound asleep and suddenly be awakened because Sam was leaning over him, his bare hand snaked under Dean’s shirt, resting on his chest. Sometimes Dean would curse in protest, a sleepily muttered, “Jesus, Sammy,” but Sam was nothing if persistent – “Sorry, but I need to listen, I’ll try not to wake you up next time,” when he sensed that Dean was cranky or impatient. Most of the time Dean was neither, having grown so used to waking up like this, Sam checking up on him, so he grudgingly – if not willingly – submitted himself without complaint, knowing how important it was to Sam.

And, if he were pressed to make an admission, it was kind of important to Dean as well.

Even more rare were the times Dean actually asked Sam to – tell him what was going on – times that probably could be counted on one hand but were there nonetheless, times where Dean felt – off – knew something was amiss but couldn’t tell if he was right or not. “Sammy, give a listen,” was the way he’d learned to put it, and right away, Sam knew what Dean meant, made sure he dropped whatever he was doing to see what was going on. Dean couldn’t remember what had come out of those particular times he asked Sam to listen – he didn’t think anything terribly concerning – but it had been more like a second opinion type thing, another set of hands to confirm and monitor and reassure.

Because, truth be told, Sam was way better at detecting what Dean’s heart was doing than Dean was.

So, yeah, even though Sam had caught things with his attentiveness throughout the years, things that led to Dean going in to get examined and then get the drugs or treatment or whatever he needed, the first time Sam really saved Dean’s life had been when Dean was a senior in high school.

It’d been the middle of the night and Dean had been asleep, fighting his way through the third week of being sick, some kind of bronchial infection that had been plaguing him. He had all sorts of meds – the antibiotics, the steroids, the heart regulating drugs and he’d been taking them for almost ten days; yet he wasn’t doing great, was still tired and slightly feverish and coughing his brains out. Which in itself wasn’t odd, his colds were like that, and he had all the fucking drugs, so he wasn’t all that concerned, just pissed that he still kind of felt like crap.

“Dean. Dean, wake up. Right now.”

Someone’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him, another hand pressed against his chest.

Sam. “What?” Dean had barked out, or at least as much of a bark as he could muster what with his cough-hoarsened voice, all the phlegm still stuck in his lungs.

It was, in fact, the cough that had gotten Sam going.

He tried to get Dean to sit up, all the while attempting to explain what was going on. “I just called Mrs. Roncelli,” Sam was babbling. Their neighbor in the room downstairs. “She’s going to drive us to the hospital.”

“The fuck, Sam?” Dean had demanded. He’d been asleep. He would’ve tried to pull away, but Sam’s hand was still on his chest and he had learned early on not to pull away when Sam was trying to listen to his heart.

But he was confused and half-asleep. “What’s wrong?” he had asked. “You sick?”

“No!” Sam reluctantly pulled his hand from Dean’s chest to get up and start moving about, tossing shit around the room. “Your coughing woke me up.”

“So?” Dean himself hadn’t even been awake for that. And he still wasn’t sure what that had to do with having the neighbor drive them to the hospital at that ungodly hour. “You want me to go sleep on the couch?”

“Your heart is – bad.” He came over, all but threw one of Dean’s sweatshirts at him. “You need to get dressed—at least put this on, we have to get downstairs.”

“Sam, I’m fine. It’s just a bad cough for crying out loud. It’s been like this for – weeks. You know how I am, what I sound like when I’m sick.”

“You’re not fine – your heart’s all over the place. Come on, stop fucking around, get up and let’s go.”

Stop fucking around. Sam hardly ever swore then, and never at Dean and never that word. In wonder, Dean tried to talk him down one last time. “Sammy –”

“Dean.” Sam also wasn’t one to cry, to show how afraid he was – not usually – but at that moment his voice had been shaking, the pleading in it unmistakable. “I know what your heart is supposed to sound like when it’s okay. And it’s not okay.”

It had been those words that had convinced Dean that Sam was right – not the fact that Dean had been sick for three weeks or the middle of the night coughing and clinging fever, but the knowledge that what Sam had said was true, that he knew better than anyone what Dean’s heart should sound like – had spent years familiarizing himself with it, paying his full attention to when it was sounding and acting the way it was supposed to.

Really, when Dean thought about it, there was no one who knew his heart better than Sam.

The neighbor – a large widow named Mrs. Roncelli had driven them to the local ER, thinking she was bringing them there because Dean was having a hard time with the respiratory infection – which, given how much he was coughing and how sick he seemed to be, wasn’t a lie, exactly. “Your daddy off on business?” she’d asked at one point. She asked without rancor, though, was accepting of the lifestyle the Winchesters appeared to lead.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam had answered. “He just left, he thought Dean was getting better.” Which was true, for a change. Dean himself hadn’t been able to talk at that point, his ability to draw breath and speak at the same time a major challenge by then.

The rest of the night had been filled with breathing treatments and oxygen masks and IV’s because, when all was said and done, Sam had been right, Dean’s heart had been way out of whack despite the meds he’d been taking and it had taken the medical people most of the night to get it to where it was supposed to be. As always, John had been impossible to get a hold of, but between Dean being of age and the nice neighbor lady promising to keep her eye on him, they were allowed to leave the next morning, different drugs in hand, Dean slumped against Sam on the drive home, completely wiped, unable to stay awake, still sick with the infection but able to breathe and his heart beating like it was supposed to.

“You’re lucky your brother knew to get you in here,” they told Dean at the hospital, more than once, after everything had calmed down. “It looks like he saved your life.”

It was the first time since Dean had gotten sick that he’d really understood how much Sam was invested in making sure he was all right, how this wasn’t just something he was doing out of duty.

He’d made Dean’s life as important as his own.

Something his own father hadn’t done.

It was a revelation that had released him and leveled him to nothing, all at the same time.

/////

Dean. . .

I think he’s waking up.

Dean, can you hear me? Does anything hurt?

Now, there was a question. What didn’t hurt? Everything – his throat, his head, his chest, even his upper back was killing him.

You’d think this place would have some kick-ass meds, Dean has time to think, just as he gets his eyes open.

Unfamiliar people around him, dressed in medical garb. Dean recalls instantly that he’s in some hospital, though not exactly the specifics of what put him here. He remembers leaving the motel and getting to the ER and sitting around for hours waiting, and his breathing getting all fucked up and Sam going apeshit trying -- and succeeding -- at getting someone to pay attention to them just as Dean started to fall forward out of Sam's grasp, his legs inexplicably unable to support him anymore.

They’re calling him Dean so Sam’s obviously decided to use part of their real names, though how he’s pulling that off, Dean’s not sure.

He tries to say something and realizes there’s a fucking tube stuck in his throat. He knows it’s a ventilator, and immediately, without thought, tries to – pull at it – try and get rid of the horridness of how it feels.

“Just hang on a minute, Dean,” one of the nurses says. “We’ll get you off this vent in a second.” They’re doing all sorts of things, dashing around the bed, positioning him, adjusting this and that. They give him instructions on what they want him to do when they pull the tube out of his throat, but Dean’s been down this particular road before, so he knows how to take a deep breath in and then cough when they pull it out.

It sucks, feels like shit, but not as bad as being on that thing.

“Where’s Sam?”

He’s shocked by how – weak his voice is. He shouldn’t be, the last thing Dean remembers before passing out is trying to draw breath, beginning to feel panic even as he started coughing up the bloody, foamy crap that could only mean he was going to be drowning in his own damn fluids right there and then because his heart is really fucked up this time, and while this had happened on some level before, it’d never gone quite like this, so fast and so frantic, and so seemingly –

Well, fuck, -- fatal.

Dean had passed out at some point, somewhere between them slapping an oxygen mask over his face and injecting a whole bunch of – something into the IV they’d hooked up into his arm. He tried like hell not to go out, didn’t want Sam to freak but he couldn’t help it, he wasn’t getting enough air, and he’d been down that road before – too many times – and he had no choice but to let himself go as he fell.

So, yeah, he knows where he is and kind of how he got to this point but he doesn’t know where Sam is or how long this shit’s been going on.

They talk to him alone first, though, question him about the rheumatic fever – which he expects – and other things, which he does not.

What he expects is to hear is things like, “breathing treatments,” and “Lasix,” and “drugs to regulate your heartbeat,” that usual bullshit.

What he ends up hearing is “pulmonary edema,” and “mitral valve failure,” and “possible surgery after further testing.”

There’s accusation in the air, a sense that he’s sicker than he needs to be, that there are questions as to why he’s here, his heart failing so spectacularly when it shouldn’t be – Dean knows that’s what they’re all thinking, it’s happened before, but he’s just not up to it right now.

He needs Sam in here.

And they do let him in, briefly, but by then Dean’s almost asleep again, having agreed to nothing except taking the drugs they want to give him, including a wonderful shot of morphine that has him sailing high when Sam gets there.

There’s a lot they need to go over, but no way is it happening now.

“Hey, Sammy. How’s it?” Dean’s words are slurring and he can’t even finish his sentence, but he can’t help it, the damn morphine is just that strong.

“Don’t even try,” Sam says. “They’re only letting me stay in here a few minutes but I’ll be in the waiting room so if something – if you need me – I’ll be right outside.”

“Sam, go home. Motel. I’m okay.” His breathing is beginning to even out, his eyes flickering as he’s being pulled under. “Go.”

Sam doesn’t answer, just waits. Dean gets his eyes open one last time, can see by Sam’s face he must look like hell. “Thanks for – saving my ass. Again.”

It’s hardly a whisper but that’s all he’s got. “Yeah, well,” Sam says. “Ever stop to think that I might like having you around?” And just before he goes out, he feels Sam lightly rest his hand over the spot where Dean’s heart still beats, and while he knows the blanket is too thick and Sam can’t feel anything, Sam does it anyway.

Dean knows he can’t help himself.

////

When Sam left for Stanford, Dean’s heart became messed up in a very different way.

Physically, Dean had never been healthier. For whatever reason, practically the minute Sam went to California, Dean’s heart had stayed the way it was supposed to, even without him taking any meds or doing anything out of the ordinary to make sure he was all right. He still got the occasional cold and it was still a fucking pain in the ass, but he didn’t get any infections, and he went weeks – even months – where he was strong and healthy enough where he could be on his feet and not become winded or stumble around in pain.

It was like, once Sam left, once he knew he couldn’t physically rely on him to tell him what was going on, Dean’s heart righted itself.

Kind of.

He had known Sam was going to leave. That was his head being practical and rational and there was even a part of him that knew Sam had to leave, whether Dean was ready to admit it or not.

But with everything in him, Dean didn’t want Sam to go.

So he did what he thought would be the best thing to try and ease the void.

He hunted like a mad person, and lived even harder, drinking and fucking his way around the lower forty-eight, sometimes with John, but most often not – and that was John’s doing, his hemming and hawing and saying it’d be better – more efficient – if they split up, hunted that way instead of “slowing each other down.”

It hadn’t taken Dean more than two seconds to figure out that John felt as if Dean was the one doing the “slowing down,” that he wanted to be free of Dean after feeling tethered to him for so many years – him and all his problems.

Just as it had been clear to him why his father had been so against Sam going away, why he’d fought tooth and nail on it with Sam – hell, it was fucking obvious.

John didn’t think Dean was going to be able to hunt.

At least not seriously.

He thought Dean was weak. Unable to cut it. He’d wanted to keep Sam around to take Dean’s place.

And physically, how could Dean argue with him? Those had been the years when he’d been his sickest. One infection after the other, including the time he’d landed in the hospital because his fucking heart had had some kind of – infection. The arthritis in his fingers and wrists that wouldn’t allow him to clean or hold a gun, much less fire it, the pain in his knees so intense that he could barely limp around.

He hadn’t always able to keep up, especially the last couple of years Sam was in high school. His father never came right out and said, “Don’t come with me, you can’t keep up,” but the implication was there – present and sharp every time John took off without a word as to where he’d be, often when Dean was still in the hospital.

But regardless of John and his absence, Dean was physically at his peak those years Sam had been away, and while he couldn’t explain it, he was glad to take it for what it was and revel in it, not look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak, use his newfound strength to hone his hunting skills, fine tune his craft.

He could accept that he was on his own, that he shouldn’t be clinging to John the rest of his life.

Just as Sam had gone to find his place in the world, make a life for himself, Dean began to do the same. His – physical problems were as stable as they’re going to be, he knew he was a good hunter, knew it was what he was born to do and now had the freedom to do it.

So, yeah, Dean should’ve been feeling good about everything, as far as where he was at.

Except it seemed as if someone forgot to tell him that he was going to miss Sam more than he had thought possible.

No, that wasn’t even right. His dad he missed. But that was fleeting and borne out of duty and things that never were. That was more regret, wanting something Dean had never had.

He knew what missing Sam was. That was an ache, something deep within that he felt no matter how healthy he was feeling, couldn't be completely soothed no matter how hard he hunted or how drunk he got.

At first, he tried to tell himself it was just that he missed Sam because Sam was the self-appointed keeper of all things related to Dean’s heart, and now Dean couldn’t rely on that anymore.

It wasn’t like Dean missed all the middle-of-the-night heart checks from Sam – of course Dean could tell when his own heart was beginning to go out of whack – at least most of the time – and, yeah, it wasn’t like he couldn’t put his own damn hand on his own chest and gauge how fucked up it was at any given moment. Sometimes, he didn’t even need to use his hand, could feel the missed or extra beats echoing in his ears, could feel the whooshing of the heart murmur down his chest when it was quiet enough.

But he missed what that stood for, the idea behind Sam checking up on him.

Because when Sam was there, it meant someone actually gave a shit.

And really, push coming to shove and all that, with both Sam and John gone – Dean’s heart was broken in a worse way than any disease could break it.

/////

Three days.

Three motherfucking days in the hospital, with no real end in sight.

It seems excessive to Dean, because the other times his heart has – well, almost failed on him, he’d been released sooner than three days. But this time, it’s more complicated than just his usual heart failure routine, this time there’s not just the infection that set everything off, there’s issues with his lungs, how the meds aren’t working like they should to clear everything up, there’s tests that seem to indicate that his heart isn’t just failing but that it – might not be able to be taken care of without some kind of surgery, depending if these drugs start to do their job or not.

And for good measure, there’s even a whopper of a head cold thrown in because he’s just that awesome that on top of being critically ill, he has to come down – just as he’d thought – with some kind of upper respiratory thing besides. The good news is, his lungs are already fucked up so he’s already on some good antibiotics for that so the cold shouldn’t get any worse; the bad news is that it’s the head cold from fucking hell and beyond and it’s making the heart drugs not as – effective as they could be.

Plus, it’s a head cold that sucks. He can’t breathe through his nose, his eyes fucking hurt and every time he sneezes – which is continually – it pulls at the spot where they jammed the chest tube in to drain off the shit in his lungs.

So, by day three, he’s pissed. And pissy. With the hospital people and more with himself.

But not with Sam. Especially after Sam comes in and quietly tells him what’s up with the insurance and their fake names and how he’s had to do this and that to ensure that they won’t get caught paying for this awesome hospital stay with money that isn’t theirs, money they don’t have.

“I think you should go,” Dean says after awhile, after he’s bitched and moaned and sneezed and blown his nose three dozen times. He’s had thoughts about this in the past few hours, thinking about his own – pathetic crap – that he’s dragged Sam into, shit that Sam had been lucky enough to escape when he went to Palo Alto, shit like taking care of Dean’s sick ass and fucking around with things like lying about insurance and fake credit cards and everything else that goes with what their lives entail.

“No offense, Dean,” Sam says, not looking up from his laptop. “But I don’t think it matters if I sit here with you or back at that dump of a motel. I don’t mind being here, you know.”

“I meant go back to -- California,” Dean says, and then he does have Sam’s attention. “I’ve been thinking about it and it’s probably for the best. I don’t think this is going to work.”

Sam frowns at him. “Shut up,” he says. “I’m going to pretend it’s the drugs talking and ignore what you just said. But pretending it’s not the drugs for a second, why the hell would I go back to California? What have I got there?”

“What’ve you got going on here?” As if to emphasize, Dean sneezes, curses, blows his nose all in one practiced move. Not only does it hurt his ribs where the chest tube was, he can actually feel his heart skipping around for a few seconds before righting itself, something that’s been going on the past three days.

“Dean, what's wrong? Why are you talking like this?”

In spite of himself, Dean manages a short bark of laughter. “Jesus, Sam, I don’t know, what could possibly be wrong?”

“Okay, I didn’t mean –”

And then they are saved – or maybe it’s the opposite when Dean later thinks on it, maybe they’re actually tossed into the fire sooner than expected – when the door to his room opens and some doctor Dean’s not seen before comes into the room.

//////

“Has anyone ever talked to you about a heart-lung transplant?”

Jesus. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam staring at him but Dean refuses to look at him, almost refuses to acknowledge this doctor’s – who introduced himself as one Dr. Mahoney – whose name would’ve likely reminded eight year-old Sam of a baloney sandwich, Dean has time to think – question because it’s so –

Horrible.

But they’re here now, trapped, listening to this guy blabber about a heart transplant.

As if that could really be an option.

It would be funny, enough to make Dean laugh, if it didn’t hurt at the moment just to move even the tiniest bit.

He’s exhausted. He’s still not back on track but from what he understands, it’s been touch-and-go just to get him here, a lot of drug fiddling and fluid draining and his heart still isn’t right, his lungs not completely clear, vicious head cold or not. Dean’s not completely surprised and he doubts Sam is either. They – always the ubiquitous “they” – had told him from the start that this was a disease that would bite him in the ass as he got older, would progressively worsen over time as his damaged heart became more strained and sustained more injury.

But he is surprised that someone is actually mentioning a heart-lung transplant to him because that’s just -- fucked up. On so many levels. Dean doesn’t know if he’ll even be able to find words to – address this. Neither he nor Sam take the initiative to answer and the silence begins to drag out longer than Dean is comfortable with, but the doctor is clearly going to wait it out as long as necessary. Dean is half-expecting Sam to step in, give some sort of answer to fill the gap, but Sam stays quiet as well.

Unusually so.

Dean clears his throat, tries to think what direction this might be going in because he already knows the answer – the final answer – he’s going to give, and he doesn’t want to sit through all the extra bullshit he knows is coming before. “Not really,” he says, finally. “Maybe a long time ago, when I was – young. Someone might’ve said it could – be a possibility someday. Depending on how things – ended up going.” His voice sounds low and weak, raspy from the cold and the oxygen they still have him on and he almost wishes Sam would step in and kind of help him out here.

“Well, you’re still young,” Dr. Mahoney answers. “And it looks like that possibility has arrived for you.”

More silence. Now Dean really expects Sam to jump in like he always does, but Sam isn’t budging. Dean manages a glance at him and he’s expecting to see Sam looking shocked or overwhelmed or – something like that, some kind of emotion that would explain why he’s so uncharacteristically quiet in the face of all this – disquieting news.

Instead, Dean finds him looking – almost relieved. Leaning forward, waiting expectantly, like he’s not even shocked. Or surprised.

Where as, Dean is both.

He thinks he can try and make this happen somehow, Dean has time to think, the revelation coming as he watches Sam’s face. He wants this, has wanted this for a long time.

“I’d like to send you up to Chicago and have them evaluate you at Northwestern,” Dr. Mahoney says. “And then you could go on a waiting list.”

“No,” Dean says, just as Sam asks, “When?”

This time, Dean looks at Sam full on. It’s a look that says, Don’t say anything, I’m going to do the talking right now.”

Dr. Mahoney looks between the both of them before speaking. “Right away,” he says, deciding to go with Sam’s question. “As soon as Dean’s able to get there.”

"We could probably --" Sam starts to cut in.

“I said no,” Dean repeats. He thinks about manufacturing an excuse, but really, what’s the point? Every excuse he gives, this doctor will have ten reasons why he should go to this – place in Chicago.

Better to just say no and leave it at that.

Though it would seem someone forgot to give Sam that particular memo.

“It’s just to see if you’re a good candidate for such a procedure,” Dr. Mahoney says quietly. “And then get you on a waiting list. Which is at least six months long. What I’m saying is – if the doctors at Northwestern agree with the tests we’ve run so far here – now is the time to be thinking about getting on that waiting list.”

“You’re saying I only have six months to live?” Dean challenges. Strangely, he’s not frightened but more –

Irritated.

“I’m saying you’re going to need a heart transplant at some point in the future,” the doctor says. “The damage your heart has right now is – untreatable. The sooner you get on a waiting list – which can be a lengthy period of time, depending – the better your chances are of having a good outcome.” When neither Sam nor Dean say anything, he asks, “Shall I make the arrangements for you at Northwestern, then?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Dean glares over at Sam, but it’s Sam who gets out the first words. “Dean, I think we should at least go hear what they have to say, what they want to do,” he rushes out. “It can’t hurt to find out what exactly is going on with – all this.”

“We just heard what’s going on,” Dean says. “My heart’s fucked up beyond repair and they want to do a heart transplant. I’m saying no. Seems pretty clear to me what’s going on.”

He knows this isn’t going to be the end so simple and clean like he’s acting, that he’s in for a fight with Sam over all this – a tempered down, we’re-in-the-hospital-with-fake-insurance-so-we-have-to-keep-it-together kind of fight – but a fight nonetheless. But right now, Dean is out of patience and out of breath as well. The doctor must sense this because he quickly gets up, fiddles with some of the lines attached to him, pats him once on the shoulder. “Nothing needs to be settled right at this moment,” he says. “You certainly should talk things over. And that should wait until Dean is stronger. Right now, I think he's probably had enough talking and needs to rest.”

“What for?” Dean mutters. “Not like it’s going to matter.”

“The hell, Dean?” Sam asks, once Mahoney is gone. “You trying to kill yourself here?”

“Seems like that’s happening without my having a single thing to do with it.”

“Not if you get the heart transplant.”

“Are you really that crazy?” Dean asks. He feels like he’s on the verge of – delirium or something, the way the room is spinning and how warm he is. Not to mention that he could’ve died a few days ago – would’ve, most likely, if Sam hadn’t been there. His heart isn't working the way it’s supposed to, at least for the time being and all the shit his body’s been through beforehand has worn him out. “We’re not doing any kind of – heart transplant. Not now, not ever.”

His eyes drift shut despite his intentions, and Sam is immediately – repentant. Dean hears him get up and come over to the bedside, and Dean forces his eyes back open.

He’s not mad at Sam, not over something as – serious as this.

If there’s anyone’s thoughts Dean respects about his -- condition – it has to be Sam’s.

But he also knows Sam isn’t thinking clearly about any of it right now, and Dean doesn’t have it in him just yet to make him see how things really are.

“It’s okay, Sam,” he whispers. “It’ll be fine, just like it always is.”

It’s a promise he’s made – and kept – hundreds of times before. And not just for this.

For everything.

Sam looks like he wants to say something, but it’s like the words are cut off once he sees the shape Dean’s in and he switches course, falls back to the familiar.

He gently reaches over and carefully lays his hand on Dean’s chest.

There’s really no need – Dean’s attached to every monitor there possibly is, and being watched by every member of the hospital ICU staff and their grandmother – at least it seems that way.

But he goes with what he knows.

The beat of Dean’s heart.

“Still want me to leave?” Sam asks.

But Dean doesn’t answer, knows he doesn’t have to.

Okay, this isn’t necessarily where I wanted to stop but there’s just so much more to cram in and it would’ve been too – much. So, I think there will be at least one more part after this. This story might not be all that good but it’s literally saving my life right now because my computer is still – DOA, probably looking at a proper burial at some point this week, and this computer is all I have, and I shouldn’t complain and I’m trying not to but for some reason I can’t take anything off my flashdrive and put it on here, so anything I write has to be new. Yeah.

And I have to write, even if what’s going on the page is – iffy. But thank you all again for reading, I would respond to the reviews individually but this thing is sooo slooow. . .but don’t let it stop you from reviewing or alerting or what-have-you – all are loved and cherished. . .