Summary:  When Sam pulled the trigger, it had been Ellicott's meddling that made him do it. When Dean ripped his brother's heart to shreds, he had no angry spirit to blame.
Spoilers:  Post Asylum fic.
A/N:  Yet another fic for the SFTCOL(AR)S Secret Santa extravaganza! This one goes out to Sunrize who requested “A post-Asylum fic. Dean’s still angry with Sam until he’s suddenly faced with the possibility he might lose his little bro.” This is what I came up with. Merry Christmas!
Thanks to Gem for the beta, Brenna for the direction, and sendintheclowns for the technical insight. This fic is better because of all of you!
Disclaimer:  I own nothing!

Winchester men didn't talk.

They joked, they grunted, they ate, and they certainly drank beer. They might even plan, sometimes managed to communicate, but they rarely talked.

So five miles out from the bus station near Burkitsville, Indiana, found the brothers mostly silent. Their renewed solidarity left a pleasant air between them, but Sam's chick flick moment had nearly exhausted their conversation for many miles to come.

Therefore, the long hours and the endless road lent themselves to only two things: sleeping and thinking.

It was late afternoon--hardly time for sleep just yet--so that left thinking.

Dean gripped the wheel loosely with one hand, sunk back in his seat with his foot to the pedal, following the straight lines of the road through Indiana.

Dean was used to this--the thrum of the car, the feel of the road, and even the silence. It should have felt good, reassuring. After all, he had his car, he had his life, and he had his brother.

Stealing a glance sideways, he found his brother gazing out at the passing landscape.

Looking back at the road, he suppressed the urge to sigh. It did feel good, to have Sam with him, but there were greater doubts that still existed between them. The kind that only psychotic ghosts and missing fathers could bring out. Because Sam was here, for now, but it was still just a means to an end, and it didn't change what they'd already said to each other on the road where Sam had made his stand.

Dean figured someday they'd have to deal with that, that someday surely they’d make peace with what had been said and what hadn’t.

But for now, all he wanted something else to hunt. Something else to track down, to get his mind off of his dad, the demon, what Sam had said to him...

He just wanted a distraction.

Normally he wouldn't think twice about that. He'd just drive until he got sleepy then pull off at the first motel he saw, catch the news and skim the paper. However, somehow he didn't think making these decisions solo would be the right choice right now--the events of the last few days still lingered, fresh in his mind. Maybe it would be best to bring Sam in on the process, just to be safe.

After all, nearly having Sam commit fratricide had been overwhelming, but then to have him walk away the same night was really quite enough. Had Sam not gotten over his hissy fit, Dean would have been fodder for some small town to keep having a bountiful harvest. Dean was all about helping people, but he certainly wasn't willing to give up his life for some apple pie.

He shuddered inwardly at the memory and shook it away. No matter how he tried to shrug it away, Sam had saved his life. Hunting was always easier when done in pairs, and he couldn’t deny that Sam was back. Now he just had to keep it that way.

Turning to the brother in question, he asked, "Hey, Sam."

There was no answer.

He looked again at Sam, noting that Sam was upright and awake in the seat. "Sam," he said again.

Sam blinked.

"Sam," he said yet again, louder this time.

Looking at his brother, Sam replied easily. "What?"

Dean rolled his eyes, and reigned in his frustration. "Daydreaming, Sammy?"

Sam's forehead scrunched in question. "Huh?"

"Never mind," Dean said shortly.

Sam’s eyes were on him, studying him suspiciously for a moment, before he eased back into his seat, trying to resituate his long legs in the cramped compartment. He squinted out at the sky, blinking, still trying to orient himself. "So, where are we going?"

Dean shrugged. "Somewhere west maybe."

"You have any leads?"

"Haven't had time to look," Dean replied. "Been a little busy saving people from a pagan god and all."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah," he added. "Me too."

"Whatever, Sammy," Dean grunted in return. "If you hadn't left me alone in the first place then I wouldn't have needed your help at all."

It was said in jest, but Sam's smile faded and his jaw worked.

Dean swallowed his own smile and felt his stomach twist in regret. He waited a moment before he continued, his voice gentler now. "Figured we could poke around when we settle for the night. You could maybe do your thing on the laptop."

Sam's voice was flat. "Yeah. I can do that."

Watching his brother, Dean searched for some hint of Sam’s thoughts. But Sam's face was set in an all-too-familiar brood, so Dean harnessed his own sigh, set his face, and turned back toward the road.

A few hours, a hundred miles. Silence, silence, and an occasional yawn.

Dean was bored.

Not that he didn’t like driving aimlessly throughout the back roads of middle America, but he was tired. He hadn’t slept much, not since before the asylum—

Speaking of which, his chest hurt. He rubbed unconsciously at his ribs. Getting shot with rocksalt was not high on his list of things to do again.

More than that, the bruising made him sit funny, hunched over, to relieve the strain on his chest, which was increasing the strain on his back. He shifted uncomfortably on the seat, hoping to find a better position.

Unfortunately there only seemed to be two positions in which to sit—up and…more up. He tried adjusting his posture; nothing worked.

Perturbed, he turned his attention away from his chest in an effort to forget the pain. Driving offered few opportunities for entertainment—but then again, that’s what little brother’s were for.

He glanced briefly at Sam, who was still slouched in the same position in the passenger’s seat, eyes staring distantly out the window. It looked peaceful enough, until Dean noticed something funny on his brother’s face.

Coming out of his nose, more adequately. "Dude."

Sam looked at him, squinting against the sun that seemed to splinter through his head. It was a little hard to see Dean and Sam waited for his brother to elaborate.

"You're bleeding." Dean's face crinkled in an expression somewhere between concern and disgust.

Sam looked perplexed for a moment, as if his brother were speaking a foreign language.

Dean nodded at Sam, to confirm his initial observation.

Confused, Sam tentatively reached his hand toward the warmth that had suddenly seeped onto his lip. He drew his fingers away bloody, inspecting them in curiosity. "What the...?"

A Kleenex appeared in front of Sam's face. "Plug that before you bleed all over my car."

Numbly, Sam took the tissue, and applied it to his nose, leaning back in the seat in an attempt to slow the bleeding. "It's awfully dry this time of year."

Dean snorted. "You've always got an excuse," he said, relaxing in the seat, settling in for the road ahead. Sam was dabbing at his nose, examining the lessening flow, and Dean grinned and turned up the volume. He had his car and he had his brother. Things were definitely looking up.

They stopped in Illinois, in a small nowhere town outside of Peoria.

Sleep had evaded Sam on the road; the usually soothing jostling of the car had aggravated his mildly aching head into a full on headache that showed no signs of abating.

He waited for Dean to check them in, head pressed to his hand, eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to quell the pain.

Being so intent on making the pain go away, Sam didn't even notice Dean until he was throwing Sam's duffle in his face.

"Dude, you going to spend the night in there?"

Sam fumbled for the door, and climbed out of the car. The process made him dizzy and his vision blurred momentarily.

"Sam, come on," Dean was calling from the doorway.

"Yeah," he called back, willing his voice to sound steadier than he felt. "I'm coming."

Inside, the motel was unimpressive. Two queen beds flanked a single nightstand. There was a table and two chairs, and a dresser with a far too small TV stationed on top of it.

"You need a shower?" Dean asked, dropping his bag heavily at the foot of one of the beds.

Something didn't compute in Sam's head. He stared blankly at his brother for a second before he realized what he was doing. "What?"

Dean eyed Sam skeptically. "A shower, you know--water, soap, shampoo? Smelling good?"

Sam tried to focus. Dean was making perfect sense, he was sure of it; it was just his brain that was behind. "No," he managed to reply. "Go ahead."

Dean gathered his things and nodded his agreement. "Why don't you hop online and see if you can find us something to hunt?"

Sinking to the bed, Sam nodded blandly.

Dean hesitated, seeming to wait, before heading to the bathroom with a sigh.

Once alone, Sam tried to breathe, tried to sort out the fuzziness in his brain. He was just so tired, so achy--he just wanted to sleep.

But he'd promised Dean. He'd promised Dean he'd help. And he had to keep his promises. He had to prove to Dean that he was still here, that he still wanted to be a part of this.

That's why he'd come back. Because he might have lost his brother, and if he lost Dean, he didn't know what he'd do. There were no words to explain how terrified he'd been to find Dean tied to a tree—beyond terrified, really—but so relieved, because Dean was still alive, he could still make things right, he could make things better—

"You're a selfish bastard, you know that."

"You hate me that much."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, trying to squelch the memories. Maybe he was selfish, but he could change that, he could prove to Dean that he loved him.

But he could never take back pulling the trigger.

It wasn't him. It was Ellicott.

No, it was Ellicott through him.

No, it was him through Ellicott.

Sam fell back against the bed.

It didn't matter who it was; it didn't change that look of hurt on Dean's face when he'd pulled the trigger. It didn't change that look of cold betrayal when Dean had left him on the side of the road.

Opening his eyes, Sam sighed. Research. That's what he could do for now--research.

Standing slowly, he maneuvered his way over to the table, nabbing the laptop as he went. Plugging it in, he flicked it on, heading back to his bed while it powered up. He pulled down the sheets and kicked off his shoes. He could hear the shower running in the background.

Pain flared again in his head and Sam groaned aloud. He had to do something about this headache.

Sloppily, he reached for the first aid kit, rifling through the contents until he found the bottle of pain reliever. Making short work of the childproof lid, he extracted two pills and crashed back to the bed, exhausted.

He would just lie here, just for a minute. Take the pills and just rest before starting his research.

Sam popped the pills dry, and rolled over in the bed. He was asleep before he was even settled.

The bathroom was canary yellow, or at least it had been, and it made Dean's stomach turn. The color seemed to taint everything in the room, and the normally white toilet and sink were a putrid shade of pale yellow that only suggested dinginess, not cheerfulness.

He was feeling anything but cheerful, though—dinginess seemed to be an apt descriptor of his mood. The happiness of reuniting his brother had dwindled in the silent car trip, hampered by the inevitability of the road, and Sam's sudden distracted behavior. For all his talk of sticking it through together, Sam certainly wasn't re-entering the hunt with vigor.

Not that he could expect him to. Sam wanted to find their father, wanted to end this thing; finding a hunt in the meantime probably wasn't high on Sam's list of things to do. He would do it, would stick it through, but Dean knew how much Sam hated following orders.

He winced with the thought, unconsciously rubbing his bruised ribs. A round of rocksalt, four empty discharges--yeah, Dean definitely knew that.

Sure, it hadn't been Sam really, but it'd been something inside of Sam. And sure, Sam came back, but only after he'd walked away.

The peace was definitely a tentative thing.

Dean sighed. He could worry about it in the morning. Right now he just wanted to find something to hunt.

But first he had to do something about these ribs. Lifting his shirt, he felt a stab of pain radiate through his body--they looked agonizingly painful, so it wasn’t too surprising that they felt just as bad. Who knew rocksalt could do so much damage?

He knew he should wrap them, but he was tired, and he really did not want to let Sam have a look at them. The last thing he needed was Sam's damn puppy dog eyes making him feel guilty for something that was entirely not his fault.

No, his best course of action was a couple of pain pills and a long night's rest. Sammy could find them a gig and then they could be back on the road again in the morning.

Pulling the shirt gingerly back over his torso, he walked with care back out into the main room, hoping to run his plans by Sam. Sam, however, appeared to have a plan all his own.

Dean found him, sprawled in sleep, when he came out of the bathroom and shook his head with an incredulous grin. "Now you can sleep," he muttered. "So much for research."

With a groan, Dean eased his way onto his own bed. His ribs protested as he settled into the pillows. Grabbing the bottle of pills from the nightstand, he extracted two, and downed them with his glass of water.

He gave one last look at his brother. "You'd better be ready to research in the morning," Dean snipped aloud.

Sam just slept on, and Dean closed his eyes to sleep.

It wasn't the sun that woke Sam, though it was the first thing he noticed.

The glinting rays seemed to catch every surface in the room, multiplying and splintering off in a chaotic array on the walls. The sheer brightness made Sam squint and that's when he felt the throbbing pain in his head. Nothing like a headache to start the day off.

Sam sat up slowly, trying to rub away the pain as he shed the cobwebs of sleep. He was just so tired...

Next thing he knew, Dean was talking to him.

Sam jumped, looking up at his brother in surprise.

Dean was pushing himself out of bed. "...so I was thinking we run the usual searches, buy a paper, and find ourselves a hunt," he said, making it to his feet. Dean's proposal hung in the air, waiting for a response.

Sam didn't respond, didn't even move on the bed.

Dean leaned forward. "Sam, you listening to me?"

Sam's eyes were glazed and distant. Then a minute shudder shook Sam's body before he blinked and looked at his brother. "Huh?"

Dean studied his brother, half way between frustration and worry. "What's up with you?"

"Nothing," Sam replied, but his voice was too quick and somewhat strained, and Dean didn't believe him.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean grumbled.

"It's just a headache," Sam admitted finally. "Just got to get my head together."

Dean just rolled his eyes. "Just take your shower and let's get out of here."

Sam's headache didn't go away.

Sam wouldn't say that, but Dean knew it was true. The way Sam grimaced more, the way his movements were tentative and slow—it was pretty obvious.

That and the nosebleed that had dripped onto Sam's shirt again before Dean had finally pointed it out to the kid.

Dean pushed Sam into the bathroom to clean up. He'd managed to get a good flirt in with the waitress at the diner, before Sam came tripping back out, announcing that the police station was probably open before Dean could even get her number.

After that, though, Sam had been completely useless, lost in his own thoughts so much that he couldn't even hold a coherent conversation. Which made asking around more difficult than usual, and made the day seem interminably longer.

In fact, by late afternoon, they still had no leads, and Dean's chest was killing him, and all Sam could do was follow him in a damned docile way. And not just docile—oblivious. Oblivious to the need to research. Oblivious to being social. Oblivious to the fact that Dean's chest was filled with pain, that as the day wore on, it hurt just to breathe.

But surely Sam had better things to think about than his brother's pain.

They'd retired to the motel before dinner, and Dean flopped on his bed, sulking in an attempt to rally Sam's concerns.

Sam, however, seemed unimpressed.

What more could Dean do? He requested a dose of painkiller, which Sam provided, and Dean made a show of straining as he reached for it, grimacing as he downed the pills.

Sam merely plunked back on his own bed, eyes heavy as he watched the TV.

Dean’s glare was wasted on his brother, who rested on the opposite bed, as self-absorbed as ever. With a grunt, he informed Sam that he was going out for a minute. He waited for Sam to ask him where to, but Sam didn’t even respond and Dean left in a flurry, closing the door harder than he had to.

As frustrated as Dean was, it turned out the girl who worked the counter at the gas station was an Aquarius and interested—oh, and was pretty certain that there was something up with the weird rash of cats ending up as road kill. He entertained the idea of sticking around to see what else would happen, but he was hungry, and he was still anxious for a hunt.

He picked up a paper at the gas station and perused it as he walked back. There wasn’t much—a local bond issue was going through, and a new smoking ordinance—but he did find an interesting obituary about a farmer who had run over himself with a tractor.

Freak accident? Maybe. That was certainly Dean’s favorite kind.

Feeling somewhat more chipper, the bounce returned to his step.

Then the pain burst up in his chest and he scowled, slumping again as he slinked into the motel room. Maybe Sam would finally be ready to do some research so they could get back on the road.

The moment he walked in, though, his hopes were dashed.

He found his brother, staring blankly at the wall behind him, with a far-off expression that had been all too common the last few days. "Sam."

There was, not so surprisingly, no response.

"Dude, I think I found a lead," he tried this time, tossing the folded paper at his brother.

Sam just stared.

"Dude, what’s up with you?" he asked, snapping his fingers in front of Sam’s nose.

Sam’s eyes suddenly focused. "Huh?"

Dean glowered. He was used to Sam’s sulking, Sam’s prodding, but Sam’s sudden indifference was a mood swing he just wasn’t ready to handle. "What, you too good to talk to me?"

Sam scrunched his nose. "What?"

"I mean, it's like you're hardly even there," Dean said. "I mean, what, you go from wanting to kill me to ignoring me altogether? What more do I have to do to prove myself to you?"

"Dean, I--" Sam's words cut off suddenly as he grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut tight and bringing a hand up to his head. The pain disoriented him, sweeping over him unpleasantly. But it was gone as soon as it came. He blinked, swaying slightly, before raising his eyes to his brother's again.

Dean was still glaring at him, waiting expectantly, the flicker of concern dissipating with Sam's eye contact. "I'm sorry," Sam said, his voice barely a whisper.

Dean grunted. "Yeah. Whatever," he said, sitting on his bed.

"You found something?" Sam asked, his forehead creased as he reached to the paper.

Dean’s spirit was gone. "Yeah. Some freak farm accident."

Sam scanned the article. "Malevolent spirit?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe."

"We can check it out," Sam offered.

Too perturbed to be sated by Sam’s halfhearted interest, Dean just kept his eyes on the TV. "Yeah. Maybe."

Dean hadn't meant to, but he had dozed off in front of the TV, his finger still poised to click on the remote. He wavered in a half-dream state, where his thoughts were vivid and surreal, and playing out with a certain clarity of a true hallucination.

He started out in the Impala, in a clear day, with the blue sky stretching before him so far that he felt like he could drive right into.

Instead he drove into a dark corridor, a hallway, and finally a room and he realized that he wasn’t driving anymore, but running, walking, standing still.

And Sam. Sam was there, smirking at him, a shotgun in his hand and blood running from his nose. "You’re pathetic," his brother said, sneering now, as he raised the gun.

Sam fired and Dean ducked, trying to deny it, but he couldn’t get away from it and the impact took him down. But when he looked up, all he saw was Sam fading away from him, leaving him—again. He wanted to call out, but it hurt—his chest hurt and he just couldn’t…

He woke up to that pain and feeling oddly out of breath. The sun was fading into the background and the day was spent.

He tried to sit up, but the pain radiated through his chest, and he fell back with a moan.

"Dude, you okay?"

Sam was sitting at the desk, hunched over the laptop in the dimming light.

Dean made a face. "Sure, never better."

Sam looked at him, his eyes directed and concerned. "Dean, let me bandage your chest. It's got to be killing you."

Dean glowered at his brother, sitting up. "I can handle it."

"Why don't you just let me fix it?" Sam said again, his voice laden with a hint of pleading.

"Dude, I’m fine," Dean mumbled. "Things have just been, you know, stressful." With you trying to kill me and run away and all.

Sam didn't seem to get the hint. He was gathering the first aid kit into his hands, and had situated himself on the bed next to Dean. "Let me see."

Hesitating, Dean dropped his arms and didn’t flinch when Sam lifted the shirt.

Sam cursed when he saw the damage. "Why didn’t you tell me?"

Dean felt oddly satisfied at the guilt in Sam’s voice. "Didn’t want to bother you with it," he said pointedly.

Reaching for the bandages, Sam motioned for Dean to take of his shirt. "You shouldn’t have let it get this way," he said.

"Like I meant to," Dean muttered back.

Sam ignored him, instead beginning the process of wrapping Dean. His motions were smooth and gentle, but Dean hissed in pain anyway. Neither brother said anything as Sam finished.

Dean waited for Sam to apologize—to do something, but his brother just went about his business. Dean's eyes were on him still, even when Sam got him a glass of water and handed him the two pills.

"We'll check them again in the morning," he said quietly before disappearing into the bathroom. Dean waited until he heard the shower running.

Glaring at the bathroom door, he swallowed the pills with a swig of water and lay down to go to sleep. He would deal with Sam in the morning.

There was an elephant stepping on his chest. A herd of elephants—not just an over-zealous circus elephant that took an act too far, but a herd of angry, wild elephants, pounding over him, agonizing each breath he took.

The pain brought him from his sleep. Opening his eyes, he came to realize the elephants were whispers of his unconscious, trying to explain away the pain in his chest.

Sitting up slightly, he caught a glimpse of the ailing part of his body. It looked like it had been trampled by a herd of elephants. Deep bruises covered his chest, peaking out from behind the gauze bound tightly around his torso. Even five days out, it looked and felt as vividly painful as when it had happened.

Groggily, he tried to remember the previous night. He vaguely remembered Sam bundling his chest, and taking the painkillers that had made sleep possible. However, the pills had worn off, and the offending pain woke him with a vengeance.

Stifling a groan, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Sam was sound asleep in the next bed. His rest looked unusually peaceful and Dean envied Sam’s slumber.

Staggering slowly, he made his way to the bathroom. The first aid kit was still open on the counter. He leaned his hands on the porcelain sink and tried to catch his breath. Fire seemed to erupt in his chest. Yes, those ribs were definitely broken--like he could forget.

Dean eyed the bottle of painkiller salaciously. Gently, he reached for it, eager for the relief promised by its contents. The bottle was open, so he turned it into his upturned palm.

Nothing.

Perplexed, he turned the bottle back over and looked inside. It was empty.

But how was that possible? There'd been enough for at least one more dose when he went to bed. He knew Sam had been having headaches, but surely Sam would have thought to replace the pills if he used them.

Except that he didn't.

Dean clenched his teeth, grimacing through the pain in his chest.

That was so like Sam. The same old selfish Sam. Sam who thought only of himself. He knew Sam wasn't being malicious, Dean was certain of that, but he was just being oblivious--so self absorbed in his own pain that he completely neglected to keep Dean's in mind. Sam had been taking advantage of Dean of his entire life, and Dean was tired of getting nothing in return. Especially when it was Sam who had caused him the pain.

Empty pill bottle in his hand, Dean stormed out of the bathroom, his eyes falling again on his sleeping little brother. "Dude," he said, positioned at the foot of Sam's bed, his voice loud. "Sam."

Sam stirred, turning slightly into his pillow.

"Sam," he said again, his voice more insistent.

This time Sam blinked awake.

"Why didn’t you go get more painkillers?" Dean asked pointedly, not giving Sam a moment to gather himself.

Sam propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes trying to come fully awake. "What?"

"Painkillers. We’re out. Why didn’t you go get more?" Dean said, tossing the empty bottle forcefully at his brother.

Sam looked confused. "I didn’t realize we were out."

"Didn’t realize? You took the last two," Dean snorted.

"I’ll go get some this morning," Sam said, plopping back down on his pillow.

"You know we have to keep the supplies stocked, Sammy. In case of emergencies."

Sam flung his arm over his eyes. "You’re really not going to let this go?"

"Well, hello, maybe I’m the one who’s in a little pain here," Dean snapped.

Sitting up, Sam sighed. "I’m sorry," he said standing. "I should have thought of that."

Dean watched as his brother pulled on a pair of pants discarded on the floor and collected his shoes. "You never think of stuff like that, Sammy. The little details that are needed to keep us all safe and happy."

Sam said nothing and sat down to tie his shoes.

"You’re just so selfish," Dean spat.

Sam clenched his teeth. "I said I was sorry," he said evenly.

"Well maybe sorry’s not good enough."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to start thinking about someone else for a change. You’ve always taken for granted that Dad or I will just take care of you. We’ll mind all the details so you can run off and do your own thing. One of us had to be the good little soldier, Sammy, and you were never selfless enough to take that role."

Dean expected Sam to lash back. Sam’s rebellious nature always asserted itself in conflict. And, truthfully, Dean was almost looking forward to it. Only in anger could they say the words that lingered beneath the surface.

But Sam surprised him. He warily rubbed his forehead. "I’m sorry, Dean. You always were better at all that stuff." He sighed and pushed himself up, grabbing the keys of the nightstand. "I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay? I saw a supermarket down the way."

Dean watched him go, too stunned to speak. That certainly wasn’t what he had expected. Sam’s response had been far too docile, far too accommodating.

Easing down onto the bed, Dean’s face was set in a scowl. For once Sam’s puppy dog eyes would have no effect on him. The kid was just asking for a controversy, and Dean was tired of playing nice.

The supermarket was quiet. A few mothers with young children strolled the aisles and a few older couples meandered through them. It might have been peaceful really, had he been able to notice.

But Sam couldn't notice much of anything beyond the throbbing of his head.

And the lights. Since when did supermarkets use such ridiculously high wattage bulbs?

He wasn't sure how he found the right aisle, but the next thing he knew, he was standing in front of shelves and shelves of pill boxes. It seemed to stretch as far as Sam could see.

Cold medicine, cough syrup--

No, Dean didn't have a cold. He was in pain.

Ibuprofen, acetaminophen, 200 mg, 500 mg--

The lights were glinting off the floor, the tile floor--how much money did they spend on electricity anyway?

He had to get back. Dean was in pain. Dean was in pain and waiting in the motel room. Dean was in pain because his ribs hurt, his ribs were bruised, and Sam had taken the last of the pills.

Dean was in pain because Sam shot him.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, tried to breathe through it.

He opened his eyes, grabbed the first bottle that made sense, and headed toward the checkout.

Dean saw the bottle of painkillers before he saw Sam. The bottle landed on the bed near his hand and Dean looked from it to his brother, half curious, half waiting.

Sam plopped down on the bed, sighing. "That's the best stuff I could find without a prescription," he said, laying back on the pillows.

Dean picked up the bottle. For all that it was, it seemed woefully inadequate as a token of apology. "Great," he said flatly. "Thanks."

Sensing his brother simmering anger, Sam sat up. "Did you want something else?"

Dean just stared at Sam in disbelief, a laugh rumbling out of his chest. "Are you serious?"

Confused, Sam shook his head with you. "What's up with you?"

"What's up with me?" Dean was incredulous. "What's up with you?"

"What are you talking about?"

It was one denial too many, one oblivious comment overboard. Dean’s self-control snapped. "Is it that hard to figure out, Sammy? Geez, Sammy, it's like you're not even here anymore. After all that crap you told me about it just being you and me, you act like you're in a different world. What about you and me against the world? Huh?"

Sam's face scrunched, perplexed. "I meant what I said, Dean--"

"Yeah, I'm sure you did. Just like you meant what you said down in the asylum. And in the car that night. Just words, right, Sammy? Well, what about actions? Because you've done nothing to prove that you're back in this. But you sure did back it up when you told me that I was pathetic. Four times."

Jaw slack, Sam couldn't find the words.

Dean couldn't stop himself. It was all coming out now, one way or another. Everything he'd been feeling since the asylum, since he found Sam at Stanford, since Sam walked out on them in the first place--he just couldn't stop. "Come on. You wanted to talk, so let's talk. Like let's talk about how stupid you were to let that happen. I’m not sure I can trust you out there anymore, Sam! I mean, I thought you would know better than to go off exploring by yourself and get yourself taken down by some psychotic spirit. What the hell were you thinking? There’s a reason I follow orders—because it saves lives. And since you’re too busy doing your own thing, you nearly got both of us killed. Seriously, Sam, you would have killed me."

Sam looked hurt, confused. He shook his head. "But he used your voice. That’s why I went down—"

"Whatever, Sammy. It doesn’t really matter. That’s why I went down with an unloaded gun. I was prepared. I knew what we were expecting."

"But," Sam closed his eyes, pressing his fingers against his temples, looking for the words. "I didn’t know about Ellicott. About what he did. I didn’t know."

"But you sure knew what the hell you were doing when you pulled a gun on me."

Sam opened his eyes and stared, horrified up at his brother. "I’m sorry."

"Yeah, I’ll bet you’re sorry."

"He—I—I couldn’t stop it, Dean. I didn’t know how. He got to me."

"He got to me too, and I still managed to waste his ass."

Sam's mouth hung open; his eyes were wet. "I'm sorry--"

Dean's jaw clenched in fury. "Sam, I swear to God, if you say you’re sorry again, I’m going to shoot your chest full of rock salt."

Sam's expression wavered and then he winced, letting his hand massage his forehead. "I--"

"You what, Sam? What are you going to say to make this better? Because words, Sammy, don’t mean very much to me right now."

Sam winced again--more pronounced this time—and his shoulders curved in pain and his head dropped to his hands.

At first he thought Sam was merely trying to relieve the pressure in his head—again—but when Sam slid off the bed with a thud, Dean knew something was wrong.

By the time Dean got to the other side of the bed where Sam had fallen, his brother was seizing, and Dean knew that he was in over his head.

There was so much of Sam in so little space and the long limbs were flailing and jerking, heedless of impediment. Sam was between the beds, back against one, head moving spasmastically into the nightstand with measured thumps.

Dean gaped, tried to think, but his mind was gone, and there was only Sam.

Sam stopped seizing before the ambulance got there, but then he was so still that Dean had to keep his hand on his pulse just to make sure it was still there.

The paramedics were efficient and professional, and their words were clipped and to the point. They were next to Sam, looking at Sam, looking up at him, asking questions.

He didn't remember talking, didn't remember what he said, didn't even know what the word seizure meant anymore.

They rolled Sam onto a backboard and situated him on a gurney. They flashed lights in Sam’s eyes and tested his reflexes and frowned at the response. Sam was still through it all; his face slack when the positioned the oxygen over his face, his arm malleable as they started the IV. It was almost like Sam wasn’t there anymore and that scared Dean more than anything else.

When they took Sam out, Dean followed. His eyes never left Sam, not in the morning light, not in the ambulance as they made the bumping ride to the hospital.

The paramedic talked fast, faster than Dean could keep up with. He heard something about a 23-year-old male and seizure and brother but that was about it. He kept his attention on Sam, who was still unnervingly unmoving.

He didn’t even notice entering the trauma room, but when he looked up again, there was a team of people moving around him and Sam was being moved from one gurney to another.

"What happened?"

They were hooking Sam up to new monitors, checking things and prodding at his brother. Then Dean realized they were talking to him.

"What happened?"

"He had a headache," Dean said, his mind racing. "He just had a headache and then he went down."

"Seizure," the paramedic filled in, collecting his things.

The doctor nodded absently as he went about checking Sam’s motor reflexes. "Has he had any other symptoms? Any other behavior out of the ordinary?"

Dean blanked. Out of the ordinary? Like what? Getting attacked by malevolent spirits? Killer scarecrows? Not that those were actually out of the ordinary, but—

"You say he had a headache—for how long? Sensitivity to light? Sleepiness?"

Dean snapped back to attention. "Yeah, he’s had all those. For about four days."

Surprise registered on the doctor’s face and he moved in with a penlight toward Sam. Deftly he lifted each lid, checking their response before commenting quietly to a nurse.

"What?" Dean demanded.

The doctor looked up again, smiling wanly at Dean. "His optic nerve is swollen."

"What does that mean?"

The paramedics were packed and leaving and now a small team of nurses was milling about, checking monitors and leads. The doctor had his stethoscope on Sam’s exposed chest. "It’s suggestive of increased pressure of the brain."

Dean’s eyes widened in concern. "What are you talking about?"

The doctor signed a chart, shrugging somewhat noncommittally. "It’s hard to say at this point. His vitals are stable for now. We’re going to get him a CT and run some blood work, and we should know more then."

Dean wanted to ask more, to say something, but his voice wouldn’t work.

“Would someone please show him to the waiting room?”

He didn’t want to, but a force he couldn’t control that led him gently from the room. There was a moment of dejavu as he felt himself pull away from Sam, watching his brother, standing in the middle of a roadway, watching him leaving.

It hadn’t felt right to leave then; it didn’t feel right to leave now; but Dean followed orders, and left anyway.

The waiting room was cold, and Dean shivered in his t-shirt, wondering absently why he hadn’t thought to bring his jacket. But he supposed that making sure your little brother was alive trumped personal comfort.

But he was cold—his hair stood up all along his arms. Why weren’t they telling him anything?

He filled out the forms with distractedly. As quickly as he could, he slapped down his fake medical insurance and resumed his waiting.

He recognized the doctor from the trauma room. Now Dean could see that he was a middle-aged man, slightly balding with a baby face. His eyes were soft and soulful, and Dean imagined he had given a puppy dog look or two in his day. When he turned them on Dean, they were sympathetic, and Dean's heart fluttered.

"How is he?"

"Mr. Lyons, my name is Dr. Hootman. I was the one treating your brother, Sam.”

“How is he?” Dean asked again, ignoring the formalities.

“Sam is still deeply unconscious, which isn’t uncommon after a seizure of the scale Sam experienced. However, we are worried about the cause of the seizure—we’re noting an increase in the pressure in his brain and it’s at a level that warrants our concern.”

“Will he be okay?”

The doctor looked pensive, his voice softening. "Sam’s red blood cell count was low. Our tests have ruled out infection, which meant he was probably anemic because of a bleed. With the swelling of the optic nerve and the seizure, we did a head CT that revealed the source of a hemorrhage in Sam’s brain. We’ve already called down neurology to consult on your brother’s case. Sam will most likely then be redlined to surgery to correct the hemorrhage.”

The facts didn’t compute. "A hemorrhage? But—how? He hasn’t hit his head."

"Not all hemorrhages are caused by an external trauma.”

“So what then? Sam’s brain just randomly started to bleed?”

“Not exactly. There are a variety of other things that can cause a brain hemorrhage?”

“Like?”

The doctor sighed a little before continuing. “Well, for example, it could be a ruptured aneurysm. It’s not common but it happens, and such bleeds are known to cause strokes from time to time."

Dean recoiled. "You’re saying Sam’s had a stroke?"

"Not exactly."

"Sam’s 23 years old!" Dean exploded. "Things like this don’t just happen."

The doctor remained calm. "They’re not common," he agreed. "And I can’t say exactly why it happened, but just that it has happened. The CT has located the bleed in the cerebrum. We need to correct it right away in order to prevent further pressure build up. If it goes on much longer, it could cause more serious complications."

"Such as?"

There was a pause and the doctor took a breath. “It could lead to some permanent impairment with his speech or his ability to swallow—maybe even partial paralysis. In worst-case scenarios, it can lead to cognitive impairment, possibly even death.”

The words felt like blows and Dean felt himself wavering. “He could die?”

Dr. Hootman’s hand gently rested on Dean’s shoulder. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, son,” he comforted. “Sam is critical, but with treatment, he could make a full recovery. Neurology will be down to assess him and then we’ll figure out his treatment. Until then, you need to stay optimistic. Okay?”

Dean must have nodded, must have agreed, because the doctor was smiling slightly at him, telling him that he’d talk to him when he knew more.

Then Dean was alone again, standing in a half filled waiting room, wondering how the hell this turned out so badly.

The neurologist was a petite Asian woman in her 40s who spoke in a perfunctory and short fashion. She waved a form at Dean, and tried to get him to sign. “The surgery is his only chance. In Sam’s case, with an ICH so severe, this won’t correct itself. We need to stop the hemorrhage and drain the excess fluid off Sam’s brain in order to give him a fighting chance.”

Dean wanted odds, wanted to know that Sam would be okay.

“The brain is a tricky thing,” she said with a half smile. “There are many possible complications. But Sam’s chances get worse the longer we wait. I need you to sign.”

And Dean signed without feeling the pen in his hands.

Dean wasn't good at being alone.

He supposed that was why he was so angry at Sam to begin with. He needed Sam, and Sam left; instead of admitting his own need, he lashed out at the one person he needed for being the person needed.

Not that Dean would ever admit that, because he was Dean, big brother, fearless, snarky, smooth talker. Nothing fazed him.

Well, nothing but waiting rooms. He could have turned his charm on to the girl across the way—20-sometihng, long brown hair, tight blue dress. She didn't even look sad, just kind of bored, alternating between filing her nails and reading a magazine.

But Dean didn't want to, not at all, because all he wanted was his brother. He wanted Sam. He didn't care if Sam brooded, sulked, or ignored him--hell, he didn't care if Sam shot him, he just wanted his brother.

How the hell had they ended up here anyway? 23 year olds don't just develop bleeds in the brain, no matter what the doctor tells him.

No, it had to be something else. Something...supernatural.

Sam's visions?

But he hadn't had one in a long time, so that didn't seem likely.

Had Sam hit his head during their stint apart?

That didn't seem probable either--the doctor had seen no sign of trauma. Sam had barely been involved in the scarecrow case. That just left the asylum.

Dean suppressed a shudder.

He did not want to remember the asylum. He didn't want to remember those deranged patients, those stupid kids, that psychotic doctor--

But despite all of it, it had turned out okay. Right?

Dean's mind screamed denial and for a moment he felt the electricity of Ellicott's hands burning through his skull with a clarity that made him nauseous.

No. It wasn't possible. The damage had been reversed. Dean had burned the bones and Sam had been normal again--his same old complaining, defiant self.

So this had to be coincidence.

There was simply no other explanation.

His mind raced.

Sam, holding the shotgun.

Sam, spewing words of hatred.

Sam, his nose dripping blood.

Dean's stomach roiled.

He had only received a small dose—which had been bad enough—but Ellicott had given Sam the supernatural equivalent of a lobotomy. While clearly the supernatural impetus was gone, did that mean the damage was gone too? Could it have had longstanding physical side effects?

He traced Sam's behaviors since they'd left the asylum. Sam had been irritable, moody--but he was always that way.

But he'd also been distant, spacing off--

Dean's heart almost stopped. Absence seizures.

The nosebleeds, the headaches, the sensitivity to light. They'd all appeared in the days since they'd left Rockford. And now, seizure, bleed in the brain, possibility of long term damage--

It all added up. And the answer wasn’t good.

Ellicott had screwed with Sam's head. Dean may have stopped it from continuing, but the trauma was still the same.

Sam had been supernaturally altered and Dean hadn’t picked up on it for four days—he’d been too busy resenting Sam to realize that something was seriously wrong with his kid brother.

And now here they were. In a hospital, Sam unconscious with a brain hemorrhage, and Dean left with nothing but an empty feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

Sam’s doctor looked exhausted, and Dean couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing.

“First of all, Sam pulled through surgery. He’s still in recovery, but we hope to extubate him and transfer him to ICU within the hour,” she began. She paused, gauging Dean carefully.

“And?” Dean prompted. He was tired of waiting. He wanted answer. “How did the surgery go?”

“I closed off the base of the aneurysm with clamps to prevent the flow of blood through the aneurysm. Then I performed a ventriculostomy to drain off the accumulated fluids and placed a shunt,” she said, motioning behind her ear. “He has slipped into a coma, but it’s not as heavy as it could be. We’ll need to monitor his intracranial pressure and watch for possible hypertension or irregular breathing patterns, but we’ll just have to wait and see how he does.”

The doctor’s monologue had subdued Dean, made him feel meek, and he listened without question, his eyes falling steadily to the floor. He may not have understood the details, but he got the gist well enough. This woman had dug around in Sam’s brain and put his little brother back together and now all they could do was wait and see if it worked.

"Once he's settled, you can see him,” she concluded.

Dean had nothing to do be nod his understanding, even though he didn’t get it—why they were here, how they’d ended up like this—no, he didn’t get it at all.

The ICU was on the third floor. The nurse had pointed him to the elevator and Dean had walked inside numbly, his body moving, but his mind detached.

The hospital was busy, and the elevator was full. Dean watched the people crowding in, grim faces, downcast eyes. One was holding a bundle of balloons. A man in a business suit checked his watch and chewed his lip.

The hospital was old, probably in need of funds. The doors squeaked to a close and it lurched as it began its upward journey.

Someone sneezed. Someone else muttered, "Bless you."

But Dean couldn't hear them. Couldn't see them. Because Sam was in the ICU, in a coma, with a shunt in his head, recovering from brain surgery.

The elevator stuttered to a stop and for a second, Dean thought he would lose his lunch. He nudged passed the other occupants and took a step into the hallway, trying to breathe deep, to keep breathing, just to keep going.

Sam was stretched out on the bed, wires and tubing stringing from his body, attached to machines and monitors. The room hummed so loudly that Dean was certain he could feel it rattling inside of him.

But Sam was still, motionless on the bed, eyes closed in sleep.

Not sleep.

Sam never slept like that. So straight, so still--it looked unnatural.

Dean reminded himself that it was unnatural. Sam was in a coma, after all.

He shuffled toward the bed, leaning heavily on the bedrail. For a moment, he tried to smile, tried to offer some semblance of strength.

But the monitors beeped and Sam didn't move, and Dean had no one to comfort except himself.

Hours passed, long and undefined. He was ushered to and from Sam's room as visitor's privileges applied. The nurses liked him though, and smiled sympathetically as they let him linger longer by Sam's side.

Sam wasn't much company, though, as the coma remained constant.

Dean found ways to pass the time though. He was nothing if not inventive.

After a day, Dean had studied all the equipment—he had peppered the nurses with questions on it, and now knew what every device did, what every monitor was telling him.

Not that it did him any good, because none of them told him anything except that Sam wasn’t awake yet.

He had counted off the size of Sam’s room by paces and knew how many ceiling tiles went across the room.

He had even memorized the way Sam’s hair curled, even dirty, the way the strands fell haphazardly over his head.

The doctors said that Sam was holding his own, that the pressure was down, that they’d just have to wait and see. They kept their optimism guarded, but heralded it as optimism nonetheless.

But none of it mattered, because Sam didn't move, stayed so still that he could have been lying in a casket just as easily as a hospital bed.

He just wanted Sam to wake up. He wanted to see the kid smile, see the dimples light up his face, see the plaintive puppy dog look in his eyes.

He would even take Sam shooting at him, telling him that he hated him--

Dean clenched his teeth. Sam's words at the asylum were still so fresh, so real, so painful. It didn't matter that he'd baited Sam. Didn't even matter that Sam hadn't been in control of himself. Those words came from inside his brother, just as surely as Sam's anger and frustration had boiled over in the car to Indiana. They were real.

Sam thought he was weak. Sam resented the way he followed orders. Sam wanted him to be different. Sam hated him.

No, Sam didn't hate him. In all of Sam's ranting, he had never once said that he hated him. Dean had tried to put those words in Sam’s mouth, had chosen to believe Sam’s finger on the trigger was enough. But deep down, past the tight place where nothing but pain dwelled, he knew the truth.

Sam could never hate him, anymore than Dean could ever hate Sam.

They could be mad, frustrated, annoyed, aggravated, and even ready to hit each other, but they could never hate.

And, truth be told, Dean knew there was plenty of reason for them to be mad, frustrated, annoyed and aggravated. Both of them.

There were a lot of things Sam didn't get. Like why it was so important to hunt. Why bow hunting was more important than soccer. Why their dad had to kick him out instead of plead for him to stay. Why Dean, the big, strong, capable brother that he was, showed up on Sam's doorstep asking for help.

"I can't do this alone."

"Yes, you can."

"Yeah, but I don't want to."

And Sam had come. Sam had given up everything and come with him. Even before his “normal” life had gone up in flames, before he’d lost everything he’d left for in the first place, Sam had gone with him. He hadn’t intended to stay with Dean—he was still committed to Jess and law school and whatever the future had in store for him. But he had gone with Dean when Dean had asked.

When all was said and done, they’d both paid a price they’d never expected to pay for that reunion, for that display of love and brotherhood.

And Sam would never probably understand that while Dean hated that Jessica had to die, he was so very grateful to have his brother back.

Dean scoffed. It was a wonder Sam didn't hate him.

Because Sam had lost everything for this. And Dean had always been sympathetic to the loss of Jessica, but he'd never been sympathetic to Sam's loss of a dream.

Sam wanted more. He wanted a life beyond hunting. He wanted normal, college, an 8-5 job, a wife, a house, two kids. Those were Sam's dreams and Dean had never taken them seriously. Not when Sam walked away for them. Not when Sam stayed away for them. Not when they were nothing more than smoke and charred remains.

"It's a two-way street."

Sam had been crying out for understanding since he was a kid, and all Dean could do was throw Dad's rules at them. Even when Sam was vulnerable and hurting, all Dean could see was how Sam could have made life much easier if he'd just been happy with hunting, if he'd just played along, if he'd just been the good little soldier--

If he'd just been like Dean.

He sighed, letting his head drop to his chest. He'd messed this up so badly. If only he'd never followed Dad's orders. If only he'd been more leery of the coordinates, if only he'd given Sam's desire to head to California more merit--he could have prevented all of this.

Why would anyone expect Sam to stay in a family that never listened to him?

Dean felt like he was going to be sick, and he swallowed hard against it. Part of him wanted to touch his brother, to reach out to him, to make Sam feel less alone.

But he had never done it when Sam was awake, so why should he do it now when it would be more for him than it was for Sam?

How much time had he spent angry at Sam? Wishing that Sam was on the same page? Wishing that Sam hadn’t pulled that trigger and confirmed all Dean’s greatest fears? There was a rift between them now, one that Dean felt growing wider and deeper, no matter how hard he tried, and no matter how he tried, the blame kept shifting back to him.

When Sam pulled the trigger, it had been Ellicott's meddling that made him do it.

When Dean ripped his brother's heart to shreds, he had no angry spirit to blame.

And he called Sam selfish.

They were both selfish. They both wanted their own thing, their own way, and were narrow-minded in their pursuit of it. For Sam, maybe that was normalcy, something beyond the hunt. For Dean, it was family, loyalty. They had opposing worldviews but were bound together by an inexplicable love that defied it all. It was why Sam came back for him in Indiana. Because having each other was more important than being right.

That's what Sam had showed him.

Or was trying to show him when Dean pushed him away.

He’d messed this up so badly. He’d been the one who wanted to go to Rockford. He’d been the one who wanted to split up. And then he’d been the one to tell Sam that he didn’t want to talk about it, to push it aside and let it fester, unchecked between them.

Sam had been the victim. Sam had been the one Ellicott had messed with. Dean had felt what Ellicott could do, and he'd done a whole lot worse to Sam.

Yet it was Dean who had broken Sam's spirit, Dean who had put the unloaded pistol in Sam's hand, Dean who had pushed Sam to fall in line then felt hurt when his brother followed orders.

That’s what Ellicott had really done to Sam. He'd stripped Sam of his ability to reason, to think, and left him with nothing more than raw and exposed emotions. Dean had easily manipulated Sam into doing what he'd wanted, getting him to pull the trigger if only to prove to himself that Sam really was the selfish one.

He'd manipulated Sam when Sam was compromised. He'd taken advantage of his brother and then had the audacity to be angry at Sam for his weakness.

There was no way Sam could have fought of Ellicott's suggestion. Seizures, coma, brain surgery and a shunt was all it took to prove that to Dean.

His head fell, and he felt the tears spike in his eyes. Next to him, Sam slept on, unchanged.

The apology caught in Dean's throat. It needed to be said, but Sam couldn't hear it right now anymore than Dean could speak it.

The doctors said Sam should be waking up soon, which was the good news.

They also said to expect some cognitive repercussions--lots of big words Dean didn't understand. But the gist of it was that Sam may be weak on his right side—maybe even paralyzed, Sam may have speech troubles, swallowing troubles—a host of difficulties that scared Dean, but the possibility that Sam might never wake up scared him more.

Sam still looked like crap—though he seemed to be moving more. Well, shifting some at least—tiny movements, nearly imperceptible really, but enough to keep Dean on the edge of his seat.

Dean was angry that they still made him leave, but the nurses, no matter how much they liked him, seemed to be sticklers for policy. When he sauntered in after morning rounds the third morning, he was greeted by Sam’s neurologist. “Good news,” she said, a smile on her face. “Sam woke up.”

Dean’s heart fluttered and he started to move passed her. She restrained him with a gentle hand on his arm. “We need to talk.”

Dean’s momentary optimism plummeted. “He’s okay, right? I mean, he’s alright.”

“He is alert and oriented and responds to verbal commands. However, his right side is weakened right now and he’s still having a little difficulty speaking. It’s likely that these problems will recede with time and minor therapy. However, you need to be aware of his condition. It’s not clear he remembers what happened—I explained it to him, but he seemed rather anxious to see you.”

Nerves uncoiled in Dean’s chest. “So I can see him?”

Her smile was warm. “Yes. And talk to him, try to engage him. He probably won’t speak much, and try not to push him too much. Right now he still needs to rest.”

Dean was barely listening and was already half way through the door by the time she finished.

The bed was slightly elevated and Sam was still splayed across it, mostly limp, his dark hair falling in untidy locks about his head. But his eyes were open and he was looking around the room tiredly.

“Hey,” Dean said with an easy smile, moving toward the edge of the bed.

Sam’s eyes focused slowly on him and he looked like he wanted to speak.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he said, pulling a chair up to the bed. “Rules, you know. But I’m here now.”

Sam’s anxiety continued to skyrocket, and he shifted in the bed, struggling to swallow.

“Relax, Sam,” he said softly, leaning in closer, letting his hand rest on Sam’s. “You’re going to be okay.”

Sam looked confused, maybe a little scared, and he looked doubtfully into his brother’s eyes. His jaw worked, but the only sound that came out was cracked and raspy.

“Seriously, little brother,” he said. “Things are going to be much better now.”

Sam held his gaze, the panic receding, and a small smile tugging at his lips. “…p-p-prom…ise?”

Dean’s smile widened. “I promise.”

Sam was going to be okay. The doctors were looking him in the eye again and the nurses were even a bit flirtatious. Sam was moved from ICU to his own room, and he was well on his way to recovery.

The speech therapist said that Sam would be fine, and already Sam’s speech had mostly corrected itself. He was now complaining thoroughly when his physical therapist made him work his right side—the exercises were weak, he said, but Dean could see that they wore Sam out, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

But his strength rapidly returned, and the light was back in his eyes, and Dean could feel the growing need for conversation running between them. The necessary optimism for Sam’s recovery had shielded it for awhile, but the relief was wearing somewhat thin, and the issues that led them there were lurking in the background.

In the end, it was Sam who broke the silence.

The doctors were talking about Sam’s release, and he was getting glowing reports all around. But the better Sam got, the more he withdrew, and Dean knew that physical recovery wasn’t the only thing they needed to overcome.

Dean had envisioned lots of ways this conversation would go, but he certainly didn’t expect it to start the way it did.

"I'm sorry."

Dean cocked his head. "You're sorry."

"For everything I said. I never should have..." Sam's voiced trailed off and he looked down. "I never should have said any of it. I know I told you I didn't mean it, but actions speak louder than words, huh?" Sam smiled ruefully, his eyes twinkling with sadness as he looked up again.

Dean felt his throat tighten. He couldn't speak.

Swallowing uncomfortably, Sam looked away again. "I just don't want anything to happen without you knowing.”

"Sam--"

"No, Dean, I have to--"

"No, Sam, stop--"

"Dean, we have to--"

Dean's patience shattered. "You have nothing to apologize for, okay?" he exploded.

Sam looked confused, his mouth gaping open. "But--" he tried. "I shot you."

"Ellicott whammied you. Completely and totally. You couldn't stop that."

Wide eyed, Sam sought for understanding. "Dean, I know it hurt you. The things I said. Then I pulled the trigger four times--"

"I know, okay?" Dean snapped. "We don't have to relive every detail."

"It's just--you didn't deserve that--any of it."

"Maybe, maybe not," Dean finally acquiesced. "But you didn’t deserve to have your head messed with by some freakin’ nutjob spirit. You didn’t deserve to have your girlfriend die. And you sure as hell didn’t deserve to spend your entire life feeling not good enough. There’s enough blame to share, little brother. There’s enough."

“But the things I said, the things I did—“

"Sam, it wasn't you," Dean interrupted it. He moved closer, almost touching his brother. His voice dropped to a whisper. "It wasn't you."

"But it--" Sam’s voice was pleading and desperate.

"But nothing.” Dean was insistent.

Sam’s apologies gave way to frustration as his emotions overwhelmed him. "I shot you!"

Dean’s voice echoed Sam’s in intensity as he met his brother’s eyes. "And I told you to do it!"

Both truths stood, a testament to their equal betrayals and the ultimate irony.

Sam only wanted to define himself, but seemed to follow orders when it counted.

Dean was afraid of being alone, yet always seemed to be pushing people away.

They were both breathing hard, eyes shining, teeth clenched. Their eyes were locked, unyielding, waiting for the other to give.

Sam’s features quivered, then finally broke in a unrealized sob. He dropped his head and looked away. He laughed slightly. “I’m tired.”

Dean wanted to say something, to prompt Sam for more, but Sam yawned and leaned back, letting his eyes rest closed.

“I just can’t sometimes…you know?” Sam asked, not opening his eyes.

Dean was shaking, but managed a smile. “Yeah. I know.”

“I just need to sleep,” Sam continued. Then he opened his eyes, meeting his brother’s. “You should look for a hunt for when I get out of here.”

Dean’s throat constricted and his eyes burned. He nodded.

Sam sighed and closed his eyes again. “I’m still sorry,” he said again, his voice already soft and far away.

Moving closer, Dean wanted to speak, but no words would come.

Sleep seemed to come quickly to Sam, whose breathing evened out and who seemed to relax more deeply against the bed.

With a sigh, Dean settled into the chair, looking wistfully into Sam’s face. For as sorry as Sam was, Dean knew he would always be sorrier.

After all, Sam had come back. And no matter what he doubted, that counted for more than Dean would ever understand. Because it was actions like that, choices like that, that spoke louder than anything. Louder than the words of hatred sprung from an evil doctor. Louder than the empty clicks of a gun with no bullets. Louder than all the doubt and fears in his head.

Sam came back. It was an apology and a promise, and it was enough.

Leaning forward, Dean reached a hand out, letting it rest on Sam’s bedrail. Sam had proven himself, and now Dean needed to prove it to him by being there for him too. He’d almost lost Sam because of his own resentfulness and one-sided anger. Sam deserved someone that would look out for him, be there for him.

More than that, Sam deserved someone who understood him, gave him the benefit of the doubt.

That’s what he owed Sam.

His fingers reached gently for Sam, touching his brother’s arm imperceptibly. “I’m sorry too, Sammy.”