This is my get well offering to Danrac1066 on Supernaturalville. Here's to a speedy recovery. Mucho thanks to Vanessa and Sojourner84 for the wonderful (as always) beta work. -- Laura


November Second by Bayre

If asked, most days Sam would describe his brother as the strong, silent type. Dean didn't talk much, though he shared plenty once Sam learned to speak Dean. Sam had to shout, flail his arms and puff up to his full height to get attention. Dean simply spoke a few low words and people jumped. Dean commanded attention. He'd walk into a room and everyone, man, woman, and ghoul would see him, take notice. Rooms just lit up when Dean Winchester sauntered through. Hell, Sam decided, Dean was the light.

Then there were the days Dean never shut up.

This was one of those days.

Yak, yak, yak, talk, talk, talk. Sam thought his brother should have needed to inhale by now, or have a drink because his throat was dried and tired. Not that Dean couldn't talk with his mouth full, Sam sure saw proof of that enough times.

Dean had talked his way across three counties, all the while Sam slouched in the passenger seat, head leaning back, trying to will the pounding away. Dean hadn't even stopped talking when they pulled over so Sam could puke up whatever meal he'd had last onto the roadside. Dean had talked him back to the car, talked him through a bottle of water and the act of folding his long, unruly limbs into the seat.

Sam hadn't been hurt, not really, not unless you counted his pride, yeah that suffered plenty. The knowledge Sam really was fine, and not going to fade away anytime soon hadn't stopped Dean from his complete freak out when Sam did a header down a flight of stairs.

It'd been a ghost, nothing too complicated. It hadn't even been a very uncooperative ghost. For some reason Sam might never understand ghosts seemed to feel the need to live in houses with stairs.

Many, many, many steep stairs.

That combined with frayed jeans had been Sam's undoing…well downfall might be more the accurate word. Catching his foot on a loose bit of his jeans after dispatching the ghost in the attic, and Sammy went tumbling down.

That's when Dean's mouth started to run.

It ran far.

It ran fast.

It ran out of control.

For the first few miles there was some talk about cleaning out the trunk, but that never, ever had been more than talk. The running commentary on how people don't use their turn signals while Dean searched out a drug store was entertaining, for about three minutes. Sam shifted in his seat and the thudding in his head wasn't so bad during Dean's dissertation on bra sizes and telling real from fake. Cause, yeah, Sam had never heard that before.

Sam didn't have a concussion; he'd just been whacked hard, on his head. For an hour or so Dean prattled on about how to tell if it was a concussion or not, and that Sam would be fine, just needed a bit of rest, and some pain killers, and some food to stay in his stomach, and…

"…and don't worry Sammy, you're doing great, you'll feel better tomorrow, you're not going to die."

Sam grunted, wondering where that came from. He'd just hit his head.

"We'll find someplace to stay tonight. It'll be tomorrow before you know it."

Sam groaned and wondered if this counted as conversation. He didn't care if they stopped or not, Sam could sleep just fine in the car. Stretching his legs, note to self, cut frayed material off jeans when pounding of head stops, Sam pushed his shoulders along the bench seat, slid one shoulder under Dean's and used his brother's shoulder for a pillow. He dozed off to Dean considering, out loud of course, which was better milk chocolate or dark chocolate M&M's. When Sam woke up Dean had apparently solved that problem and moved on to a detailed discussion on the finer nuances of decapitation techniques for zombies versus vampires.

Which…yeah…gross…Dean talked Sam through another round of puking on the roadside, this time reminiscing the time Sam had food poisoning when he was fourteen and spewed bodily fluids for two straight days, and…

When Sam woke up Dean was hauling him out of the car, enlightening him on the vast and apparently fascinating differences between a hotel, motel and inn (they were in a motel), and steering him with one arm around Sam's waist toward a seriously ugly gray door. It wasn't that Sam couldn't get himself inside, he could walk just fine. But letting Dean help him made Dean feel better, and Dean talked him through the whole process of one foot in front of the other. So, yeah, it was good.

Sam tried to convince Dean he didn't really need step by step procedural instructions for taking a pee, but Dean didn't shut up long enough to listen, so Sam just let the door swing almost shut and braced one arm against the wall in back of the toilet. If it made Dean feel better to talk Sam through potty training, round two, well hey, Sam was a good brother, he'd deal. Of course there was a complete tutorial on making his way to the bed, Dean's arm ever present around Sam's middle. Dean was always so proud he did that.

"Okay, Sammy, just lift your arms up…"

It wasn't that Sam couldn't undress himself, he'd been doing it for years, but Dean seemed to like helping and talking him through it…so Sam let him. It's not like it hurt anyone.

Sam, securely in bed, covered with blankets and head resting on an extra pillow, plumped twice, as Dean explained to help his headache go away, Sam drifted off. It wasn't difficult, he had the best lullaby ever, Dean was explaining—again—the need to maybe consider cleaning out the trunk and just exactly how to properly install an air injection reactor, which, yeah, what the hell was that anyway, and did it go on the car, or was Dean using one to keep up his monologue? Sam had no clue, but it sure sounded impressive. The merits of freeze plugs, however, were totally lost on him.

"Gooo nii't, Dean." Sam did manage to mumble that out.

Dean chattered on about lite beer and why it should be banned from the lower forty-eight. Something about it being undrinkable watery swill that's for women or girly men. But it did have less carbs. Not that real men cared about carbs. Did Sam honestly look like he needed to watch his carbs? Did Dean? Sam thought not.

Sunlight streaming through the windows poked at Sam until he surrendered, opened his eyes, yawned and pushed up on his elbows. Dean snored peacefully in the next bed. He'd apparently either run out of things to say, or enough oxygen to say them with (possibly air injection reactor failure?), Sam wasn't sure which. His head had stopped pounding; his stomach had taken over with grumbling.

Sam dressed and slipped out of the room silently. He had a mission, it was a day late, but Dean deserved it no matter what. As he made his way back into their room a half hour later, Dean was just stirring. He sat up in bed, bleary eyed, but determined, and looking about to say something.

When Dean opened his mouth Sam shoved a donut into it, and a cup of Dean's favorite coffee into his hands.

"Morning." Sam smiled sheepishly, arranging his purchases on the table, it was the least he could do after yesterday. "I got breakfast, blueberry pancakes, and bacon, sausage, and some eggs."

Dean's eyebrows shot up, the donut was wolfed down.

"Sorry about yesterday. I sort of left you alone."

"Naw Sammy, you didn't." Dean slid into the chair opposite Sam, happy grin all over his face as he dished up breakfast. "We made it through another one, together. That's all I care about. November second came and went and you and I are still here."

Sam munched on a sausage, then stabbed Dean's hand with his fork for trying to steal extra pancakes. Mom, Jess, Dad, they'd all died on November second. Today was November third, Dean and Sam, they were still here, still had each other.

That was all that really mattered.

Well, so did the freeze plugs they had to drive across half a state to get today…and what the hell are freeze plugs? It sounded obscene, porn for cars.

Sam figured Dean could explain it to him, again. Sam would listen, that's what brothers did.

End