Same disclaimer and notes as before.

This is the fluffy chapter featuring Dean as a pillow. So, if you don't like fluff, just save yourself now and run away.

Also, I have never written fluff like this before (but I read it all of the time!) so bear with me.

Spoiler: Mystery Spot

By the way, I don't think I have to say this, but I'm gonna just in case: No, no wincest.

The rumble of the Impala's engine cut across the silence blanketing the night like a knife, tires eating mile after mile of blacktop with each state passed.

After that fateful Wednesday in which Dean had died and Sam had not woken up, he went on autopilot, going from hunt after hunt, relentless in his search for the Trickster.

He planned his hunts alone and he hunted alone.

'Ate alone.

'Slept alone.

'Patched injuries himself, alone.

He did everything alone because he was alone.

Alone without his big brother.

Bobby's calls were ignored: they weren't important. All that mattered was finding the Trickster, getting his big brother back.

"Sam? It's Bobby. I found him."

That call hadn't been ignored.

He remembered the blood dripping from the stake he'd plowed into Bobby's back; he remembered how uncertainty and regret had eaten away at his stomach as Bobby's form lay before him, the possibility that he'd made a mistake pummeling into his mind.

Relief had washed over him as Bobby's body had shimmered and vanished, the stake protruding from his back flying into the Trickster's hands.

"Bring him back," he'd begged the Trickster.

"Who, Dean? Didn't my girl send you the flowers? Dean's dead. He ain't coming back. His soul's downstairs doing the hellfire rumba as we speak. Sometimes you just gotta let people go."

"He's my brother," Sam had said brokenly in response.

"Yup. And like it or not, this is what life's gonna be like without him."

A life without Dean alive was a life of loneliness.

Thunder rattled the windows, shaking Sam from the depths of unconsciousness. A merciless throb pounded in his head, leaving a sickening, high pitched ringing floating in his ears. Confused, he sent a tentative touch to his forehead which brought an achy sensation burning throughout the appendage. "What th'ell…?" Groaning and brows knitting together, Sam inspected his hand with closed eyes, running his uninjured hand over the aching one. "'R those' stitches? What happened?" he thought as he slowly opened his eyes.

Blackness greeted him.

Sending a glance towards the motel window and then to the clock on the nightstand, he asked himself aloud, "'S night already?" The sound of his voice sent a sharp pain spiking in between his ears. "Ugh," he gagged as he curled on his side, facing Dean's bed. Dean's empty bed. "Naw' back yet?" he thought, brows furrowing further, frown deepening. Dean's absence assuring him a lack of teasing, Sam let out a slight whimper as he reached for his phone, "'Should call 'em…." Hands fumbling clumsy and blindly in the dark, a wave of dizziness ascended upon him as he felt his fingers knock against his phone, sending it tumbling to the floor. Letting out a frustrated and garbled curse, he flopped back onto the bed, closing his eyes.

Lying there, the veil of confusion covering his brain began to slowly lift away.

Motel room, rain. Flooding.

Closed roads; Dean's voice over his cell phone, "Turn around, don't drown."

Dean off at a bar, playing pool.

A bottle of Jack Daniel's and an eternity spent on the cold bathroom floor, blowing chunks.

Anger and frustration leaving the bathroom mirror shattered and broken. Feeling over his injured hand he thought, "'Don' remember patching it up…." Fingers moved over each stitch, bringing the image of Dr. Benton's stitched and jig-sawed face slamming into his mind.

Two more weeks, and no immortality formula to buy them both extra time.

Two weeks.

Listening to the rain outside, Sam thought, "Damn it, Dean; we needed more time…."

Sam bit back a sob, turning onto his stomach. Senses returning full force, the pounding in his head and the ache in his hand doubled; his stomach churned sickeningly. Curling his legs under him, Sam grimaced as he felt his knees burn as they slid against the bedding. Seeking comfort, Sam extended his good hand in search of his pillow. Moving his arm to and fro against the bed sheet failed to supply the much desired item. Tilting his head so his chin rested against the mattress, Sam let his eyes adjust to the darkness, scanning the area in front of him. "Where's it?" he said aloud absently as he branched his arm out further, swiping across the full length of the upper part of the bed. Brushing against something warm and soft, Sam let loose a sigh of relief as he slid an arm around the softness and snuggled his face and aching body into the warmth.

"Whoa, hey: I'm not that drunk, Sammy."

Sam's heart nearly burst out of his chest in surprise, arms pin-wheeling as he floundered backwards, away from his older brother. "Hey, watch it!" Dean cried as Sam's hands missed the side of the bed, sending his upper body swaying precariously over the mattress. Shooting his hands out, Dean clamped on Sam's shoulders, pulling him away from the edge of the bed, stopping his little brother's descent towards the floor. Brain smacking against his skull and eyes swimming in their sockets, Sam buried his face against the solid, but soft muscles of his older brother's upper body, grounding himself as his stomach flipped and his brain pounded behind his eyes.

Curling a hand around Sam's neck, Dean gently pulled them both back down on the bed, half of Sam's upper body situated against his chest. "Would you chill out, dude. What is this? 'Give Dean a Heart Attack Day'?" Feeling Sam's labored breaths puff warmth against his skin, he added, "Sam. You gonna harff on me?" Shaggy hair tickled his skin as Sam weakly shook his head 'no,' his adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed down the bile in his throat.

"Good: it would suck if I'da had to kill you with my deal comin' due."

"Hilarious," Sam let out, voice shaky and rough from exhaustion and dizziness; shifting his weight, his fingers grazed something soft under his brother's head. A confused look planted itself on Sam's face as he wrapped his fingers around the soft surface, "Dean? Did you--?" Other hand snaking around his brother, Sam's whiskey-ridden brain didn't notice he'd encircled his brother in a sort of pseudo-hug, "Did you steal my pillow??" Fingers brushing against more downy softness, he spit out, "Dude! Why'd you take both of them??"

"Little brothers who harff on their big brother's beds don't get to have pillows," Dean stated, dead serious.

"I did what?"

"You heard me. 'Sides, you got a better one," humor made its way into Dean's tone.

"Yea… whatever, Dean. Doesn't that kill the point?"

"Oh, come on, Sammy: a lot of women would love to be where you are right now."

"Ugh, Dean!" Sam half-whined, cringing. "Do you want me to blow chunks?" Sam huffed, wrapping his uninjured hand around his stomach. After a beat, something flickered in the back of his mind and he asked, "Why'dn't you want me at the bar?"

Dean's eyes automatically rolled at the question. "Damn. Leave it to Sammy to remember that kinda crap while shit-faced…." Opening his mouth, "What?" he asked, jokingly indignant. "I can't have you around cramping my style all the time, can I?"

Sam scoffed, "Not funny." A sad smile lifted the corners of Dean's lips; moving his thumb across the back of Sam's head, he responded, "Nothin's funny when you're hung over, Sammy."

"Dean, 'you petting me?"

"Shut up, Sam: I've been drinkin'," Dean let the half-assed excuse out gruffly, but kept moving his thumb in soothing circles underneath his baby brother's hair.

"Is that how we ended up in bed together?"

Sam felt a sharp pain ghost above his ear as Dean flicked his fingers against his head. "No, bitch: you heaved on mine, remember? If I wasn't such a great guy I'd had just dumped you on my bed, vomit covered sheets and all," he brought his free hand up and swept Sam's bangs out of his face. "Aren't you lucky that I'm such an awesome big brother, hmm?"

Opening his eyes half mast, Sam stared at his brother, "You didn't realize it until you threw me on my bed, jerk."

Smirking, "Yea: I didn't feel like dragging your drunken ass around anymore, so I left you here."

"Gee, thanks."

Both lay quietly for a moment, listening to the rain splatter against the window. "We aren't getting outta this place anytime soon, are we?" Sam asked, mostly to himself.

"'Heard at the bar that it'd be clearing up sometime tonight. We should be able to get outta here sometime tomorrow. 'Flood water shouldn't take long to clear out."

"At least that's some good news," Sam thought to himself; after a second he added aloud, "Dean, why'd you walk to the bar when it's raining, anyway?" A chuckle made its way up from Dean's throat, "What? Can't a guy sing in the rain if he wants to?" Rolling his eyes Sam dead panned, "You don't have anything to sing about, Dean."

Dean's grin fell away. "Yea, you're right: I don't. Not when I get back to our motel room that's been trashed all the way to hell by my trashed little brother. It wasn't fun patching up your hand, either. Way to go, Sammy boy." At Dean's words, Sam's eyes fell from his brother's face and he turned his head to the side, head underneath Dean's chin, ear pressed above his heart.

"What? No bitch-face, smartass remark? 'Cause seriously, Sam, for someone whose a 'big boy' and can 'take care of himself,' you sure as hell don't act like it."

"Dean--," Sam started, bringing his uninjured hand up from his stomach to massage his eyes in an attempt to dull the throbbing.

"No, Sam: don't. What the hell were you thinking, bro?"

"Your deal. That we're running outta time. That you could be dead in two weeks. That I could be alone before the month's up. You in hell with no way for me to get you out, not being able to save you," Sam thought to himself, but kept his mouth shut.

A crack of lightning sent flashes of yellow dancing through the room; despite the thunder echoing outside, a heavy silence seeped into the small motel room as neither brother said anything. Sighing, Dean broke the silence, "Just, don't do that again, Sammy. I don't wanna have another repeat of what it was like when you were a kid."

Brows pulled together, "'Hell's that supposed't mean?"

"Well," Dean began in that dramatic, jackassie way of his that let Sam know his brother was going to talk for awhile, "Replace whiskey breath with Gerber breath, the bottle of Jack with a bottle of milk. Broken glass with broken toys. Sliced up hand for scratched up knees; replace the stitches with Band-Aids. And instead of diapers and shit, it was jeans and vomit: aren't you glad you didn't harff on your boxers. I know I am. I'da been traumatized even before I got to hell." A singe of red splashed across Sam's face, burning his cheeks and ears, but he didn't move away from his brother, keeping his head situated under his brother's neck. Dean intentionally let out another dramatic huff--"Probably to annoy me," Sam thought--, placing his chin on top of his brother's head, "Either way, I still had to clean you up: you smelled like a toilet. 'End up going for a dive after puking up your stomach?"

No response.

"Sam," Dean repeated, using his free hand to nudge his brother's shoulder.

Sighing and rolling his eyes in embarrassment, Sam threw out, "No, jackass, I didn't dive in the toilet. Happy?"

"No, Sam," Dean sighed, annoyed, "Really, college-boy?" He pushed his fingers into Sam's shoulder again. "Promise me."

"Promise what?" Sam pushed out, voice hoarse.

"Don't pull a stunt like this if I don't make it," came the frank request. "Just… just stay with Bobby. Don't drown yourself in booze. Okay?"


The sound of Dean's heartbeat filled Sam's ear; he could feel the gentle flutter of the muscle against his cheek. Each beat sent blood coursing throughout his brother's body, insuring that he was alive. The feel of his brother's thumb caressing his neck assured him that he wasn't alone.

"Okay?" came the stern question.

But in two weeks he knew that the beat might not being there to pump life through Dean's body, the touch might not be there to make him feel safe.

In two weeks, Sam faced the prospect of being alone.


Sam let out a shaky breath.

"No, Dean: I promise to save you."


Yea, the ending went back to angst. I think it's appropriate, considering what happens in season four.


I was originally gonna work in a revised version of my first fan fic, but it didn't happen. This is complete, but one day I may add on to it. Maybe.

I hope you liked the fic, KKBElVIS!

Thanks for reading, everyone!

Constructive reviews welcome.