Summary:  Sam and Dean take an unexpected break that leads them into uncharted territory.
A/N:  This fic has been the bane of my existence for the past month now, so I figured I better start posting it before I seriously lose my mind. This will be a LONG fic, which is always a scary thing, considering my aversion to writing things with a plot. Therefore, it starts off a bit slow, in my opinion, but there is a conflict that will eventually mount hopefully, maybe. The idea, however, is not my own, so much thanks to Lauren, who gave me the idea and let me run with it. Hopefully it doesn't hit too far from the mark you were envisioning. And, always, always, always, thanks to geminigrl11. I can't even express what she's done for me and this fic. Gem, next time I get it in my head to write a long fic, will you please talk me out of it? PLEASE! By the way, uoy kcor ym ecaf ffo!
Disclaimer:  I just like to play, I really do.

Chapter Seven

Sam seemed slightly better rested the next morning, and Dean felt relieved. Neither spoke of the sleep-walking incident, both hoping, for different reasons, that the other had let it go and that it would disappear into the void of unspoken topics that lingered between them. Dean headed back to the garage for his daily car update, and Sam had offered a vague plan to take another walk around town.

They met back at the motel just before noon.

Sam seemed excited, pulling the door back before Dean had a chance to pull his key out of the lock.

"I went back to the pawnshop. Get this. They’re gone. Those Celtic relics."

"So someone’s been shopping. Big deal." Dean tossed his key on the table and folded his arms over his chest, leaning against the dresser.

Sam's eyes flashed. "You don't think it's just a little coincidental? I mean, my interest, then, just like that, they're gone?" Sam accentuated his words with jerky hand movements.

"Sam, they were trinkets in a pawnshop--"

"What if they’re idols—some sort of tie to a god or demon or something."

"But they’re in a pawnshop. To have power, usually they have to be in some sort of shrine, have someone paying homage to them. Can’t do much harm on a shelf gathering dust."

"Sure, so maybe they’re dormant. Maybe the thing’s just lurking, waiting for someone to awaken the power. Which is why they're gone now."

"I don’t know. What would wake them up? Why now? Why you?"

The question stopped Sam. "I’m not sure," he admitted. "Maybe…maybe psychic tendencies could have sparked it. This is a small town—maybe they haven’t been in contact with anyone with abilities since coming here."

Dean pushed off the dresser, moving closer to his brother. "That junk is a fluke, Sammy. You don't get them all the time. And what about your vibe guy?"

"Fine. You have any bright ideas?"

"Yeah, just one. Not everything’s a job. While the car’s out of commission, let’s just take it easy. We have enough trouble without looking for it."

Sam sunk into a chair, sulking.

"Can’t you just let go a little, Sammy? Have some fun?"

"I just think there’s something going on here and you can’t focus for five minutes to have a serious discussion about it."

"Maybe if there were something worth investigating—"

"What do you think I’m trying to tell you?"

Dean's exasperation was evident. "Has anyone died?"

"No."

"Are there any rumors of mysterious sightings, disappearances?"

Sam stuck his chin out defensively. "No."

"Has there been any EMF activity?"

"No." Sam’s voice was low.

"Have you had a vision?"

"No."

"Exactly. See? You’re grasping at straws, Sammy. Avoiding the fact that you simply do not know how to have fun anymore."

Sam’s shoulders slumped in defeat. "I wish you would have at least looked at the relics."

Dean groaned.

"I just--I don't know, Dean. I can't shake this feeling." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, staring up at Dean beseechingly.

Sam sounded so desperate, so uncertain, Dean could not crack a joke. With a sigh, he asked. "Where’s this pawnshop anyway?"

Hope flickered through Sam's eyes. "Right at the end of the street from the diner. Three story building. Can’t miss it."

"Maybe I'll get down there sometime and have a talk with its fine owner. See if he can...remember what happened to those relics."

"Really?"

"Sure," Dean replied easily. "Not like we have much else to do."

Sam said nothing, but the grateful look in his eyes was enough.

"But first," Dean said with a grin, "There's a pinball machine in the general store. I think we may need to break a record or two before we get down to business."

Sam rolled his eyes, but followed his brother.

OOOOOOO

Three hours and nearly 20 dollars later, the Winchester boys found themselves back in Milo's Diner, looking over the same grease-stained menus in the same booth by the door.

Sam, his spirits high from Dean's half-promise to look at the pawnshop, appeased his brother by ordering a burger and a shake, which he poked at half-heartedly. Dean devoured his chicken sandwich and had flirted with the new young waitress who waited on them today.

"Dude, you better finish that," Dean said as he chewed the last of his French fries.

"I'm full." He moved around the pieces of his lunch, hoping that it would look like he had eaten more than he had.

"Like hell," Dean snapped, easily seeing through his brother's attempt at subterfuge. "We're paying good money for that, and you're eating it. You know how many pool tables I had to hustle to pay for that?"

"We could part time jobs while we're here."

Dean grinned. "But then that wouldn't be much of a vacation now, would it?"

"We're only here because the car broke down."

"So? Seizing the moment. And this town, despite its size, does offer some small attractions."

"Yeah, all the good looking motel hostesses and waitresses you can ask for, right?"

Dean could not contain his smile. It felt good to hear Sam bantering with him again, offering his inanely normal suggestions for passing time and earning money. "You're still eating that."

Sam sighed, withdrawing emotionally again. "I'm telling you, I'm not hungry."

"You're going to eat that or I'm going to open your mouth and force it down your throat."

Frustrated, Sam made a show of taking a bite of his burger. "What's the big deal, anyway?" He was tired of being treated like a five year old who had to be reminded to eat his vegetables.

"The big deal is that if you could skipping out on meals, Sammy, you're not going to be able to hold your own when it counts."

"We're on vacation."

"Doesn't mean we're letting up on the training," Dean said. "Maybe we should try some sparring later."

"Right. Now that's my idea of a good time."

"You just know I could take you."

"Whatever."

"Yeah, whatever, Sammy, you know it's true."

"Dude, I'm not having this argument with you."

"Wuss."

Sam glared at him and took another bite. "Can we leave yet?"

Dean studied the plate and looked critically at his brother.

"Forget it. I'm going to the bathroom. Pay the bill," Sam said, scooting out of the booth.

"Chicken," Dean called after him. He snarfed down one of Sam's untouched fries before making his way toward the cash register.

OOOOOOO

Sam's gait suggested that he was more together than he felt. In truth, the continued effects of sustained lack of sleep were still having a profound effect on him. One night had not made up for it. In fact, he felt even groggier now than he had the day before.

The last thing he needed, though, was Dean's watchful eye keeping track of everything he did. But the illusion of acting normal was draining.

When he got into the bathroom, he let his facade down, leaning hard against the sink. He looked up and studied his reflection in the mirror, taking in his bruised eyes and the peaked cast of his skin. No wonder Dean was worried.

He bent to wash his hands and then turned the water to cold, splashing his face to try to rid himself of the tiredness he was still feeling.

When he stood up, white spots danced in his vision and he had to grip the edge of the sink to keep himself upright. He swallowed reflexively, willing himself to relax. It took a moment, but then his body seemed to comply.

He pushed open the door just as the bells of the diner's entrance chimed. He looked over to see a thin, balding man walk inside.

And then he heard it.

Betrayer.

Sam stopped, stiffening before letting his eyes follow the man walking toward him.

You cannot resist.

There, in the waistband of his pants. It glinted as he moved, his shirt sliding up just over the handle.

The gun. He had a gun.

His heart thudded against his chest. He didn't know what it was, what it wanted, but it was the voice, the one that stalked his dreams.

The man was approaching him.

Betrayer.

The hiss made him freeze.

Sam opened his mouth to speak, to ask the question, but as he met the man’s black eyes, his low and deadly voice answered it before he could speak. "Try to stop me. Betrayer."

Sam felt the twitch, watching the world slip by in slow motion, but still speeding faster than he could keep up. The activity of the diner pulsed behind him, the trivialities melting in a distant cacophony he felt separate from. Innocents. Everywhere. Eating lunch. Serving plates. Taking orders.

The man’s hand reached, finger gripping the metal, and a smile spread wide across his teeth. The eyes threatened darkly, leaving no doubt as to his motives.

There was a little girl in a booth, her blonde hair glinted in the sunlight streaming in from the window. There was a group of businessmen, in ties and jackets, their briefcases lined up at their feet. There were two old women, leaned forward over tea, chatting as they mopped up the crumbs on their plates with biscuits.

No.

Sam screamed—what he said, he didn’t know, he could never remember—and flung himself forward.

He attacked with speed and agility, his motions trained and unconscious. The man went down, but Sam could hear him laugh, see him smile, and Sam knew it wasn’t safe. A demon would never be sated with a punch.

"Sam!"

The voice sounded insistent, echoing eerily.

"Sam, stop!"

And hands pulled him away, yanked him so hard he stumbled, nearly taking them both down.

He thrashed. The threat was still there—didn’t they understand? The laughter welled, reverberating demonically.

"Sam! Stop it!"

Dean, he thought, he knew, just before his legs gave out and things faded to black.

Chapter Eight

Dean had just made the waitress giggle at the counter when he saw Sam exiting the bathroom out of the corner of his eye. Just as he turned to the girl to make his move, the sudden blurring movement of Sam’s shirt distracted him. He looked toward his brother in time to see Sam lash out, squarely hitting another patron.

His first thought was for Sam’s safety, but Sam was already on top of the man, pummeling away despite the man’s clear submission. He did not doubt Sam had his reasons, but if his brother killed a business man in public, he would end up in jail, no matter what supernatural cause he had.

He was moving before he could think. "Sam!"

The man was flailing, pathetically trying to protect himself, and Sam’s onslaught was vicious.

"Get him off me!" the man screamed.

Dean pulled at Sam, hoping to disentangle him before the other patrons took a swing at his kid brother. More men were rushing to help.

"Sam, stop!" he screamed again, but Sam seemed oblivious, bucking Dean’s hold as they tripped backwards.

"What’s his problem?" someone asked.

Another went to the fallen man.

"Sam! Stop it!" he tried again, ignoring the steadily aroused crowd.

Sam slowed and Dean sighed. His relief was short lived as Sam went unexpectedly slack in his arms.

He barely had time to brace Sam, and they both went down. Dean managed to soften Sam’s boneless fall and cradle his limp brother awkwardly, too aware of the eyes drilling into him.

The crowd murmured in curiosity, worry, and anger. Dean tuned them out and focused on his brother. "Sammy?"

The other patrons would not be ignored. "What happened?"

The man Sam had struck was standing, nursing his cheek and a bloody nose. "The punk attacked me. For no reason."

"Yeah. Just went after him," another affirmed.

Dean looked up, his eyes flashing defensively. "Sam wouldn’t do that."

"Like hell he wouldn’t. We saw it. That’s assault."

Dean did not like where this conversation was headed. He needed an escape and fast. With Sam out, he wouldn’t be much good at making a run, but the unconsciousness offered another viable option. "Kid’s suffering from a concussion," Dean said tersely. "We were in a fender bender this morning. Smacked his head."

"So?"

"So," Dean snapped. "Erratic behavior is a complication. He must have been released too early."

"Doesn’t give him the right to go off."

"He didn’t mean it, okay? It’s not like him. I’m worried something’s seriously wrong," Dean said, his voice hitching skillfully. He sought out the women in the crowd. "He just passed out." Dean didn’t have to feign worry, but he knew how to play up the strengths of his story.

"Should I call an ambulance?" the waitress was kneeling next to him, touching his shoulder softly and gazing into Sam’s face. "He looks awful."

Dean felt relieved. Her belief swayed the crowd. "He does look pretty pale," another said. delete "Sweating too."

Dean looked down and his stomach dropped, his temporary relief at being out of an assault charge fading. Sam was ghostly pale, drawn, dark circles under his eyes. And a sheen of sweat glistened on his face. "I got him. I think—"

"Honey, you shouldn’t mess with head injuries."

Sam groaned, moving slightly in Dean’s arms. Part of Dean was thrilled to see the response, but he hoped Sam’s consciousness wouldn’t blow the shoddy cover.

The crowd moved in, still watching to see the younger man’s response.

Sam’s eyelids fluttered, searching wildly as they opened. He came to full consciousness with a start, jerking in Dean’s arms.

"Whoa, slow down, Sammy," Dean said softly, keeping his grip on his brother firm.

Sam blinked rapidly before his eyes focused on his brother’s face. "Dean?" His voice was breathless.

"Yeah, kiddo. I’m here."

Sam was trembling. "What…what happened?"

"Took a fall, little brother," Dean replied. "How are you feeling?"

Sam glanced around, searching his surroundings. "I’m…I’m okay," Sam said, his voice shaky.

Dean was not convinced, but let Sam push weakly up from the floor. As Sam rose, he steadied him, watching him carefully.

Sam experienced a brief moment of disorientation before he seemed stable on his feet.

"Is he okay?" the waitress asked, moving closer again.

Dean was about to say, yeah, when Sam pulled away from him suddenly.

"It’s him," Sam said, staring down the man he attacked who was now holding a bag of frozen peas to his swelling face.

The man glanced at his friend. "Look, kid, I don’t want any trouble—"

"He—he had a gun," Sam said, reaching a hand out to brace himself against a booth.

The man rolled his eyes. "I don’t have to sit here and take this."

Sam shook his head. "No. I saw it. He was going to—I couldn’t—"

Dean glanced nervously at his brother. He wanted to believe Sam, to trust him. But he looked again at the man, donning a suit over his pencil thin body. His hands looked soft and white and his scalp reflected the light. He grinned out at the crowd. "Okay, Sam, let’s just go lie down."

"The kid attacked me—" the man was getting irate.

"Maybe I should call that ambulance," the waitress said again.

Sam looked at his brother, saw the doubt in his brother’s eyes. "Dean…"

It was a plea, a yearning to for acknowledgment. But Dean could not see how this man posed any threat, could not see any reason for Sam to attack him. He knew Sam had his reasons, that Sam probably had seen something, but that wasn’t something to discuss in front of the crowd. The wild look in Sam’s eyes was unfamiliar, and his brother looked nearly on the verge of collapse--again. "It’s okay, Sammy," he whispered. "Let’s go."

A moment of protest crossed Sam’s face, but it was silenced by the somberness of Dean’s face. Then his face fell, a look of defeated betrayal breaking over him. He allowed himself to be moved toward the door, the resistance gone from him.

The crowd, fully convinced of Sam’s instability, let the brothers pass without a word.

They made it halfway down the street, Dean’s hand still firmly on his arm, before Dean finally stopped his brother and looked at him, his face serious. "What went on back there?"

"I…he had a gun," Sam said, but his voice was quiet, uncertain.

"You don’t just hit people for carrying guns, Sammy. It's backwater Utah. People carry guns here. Anyway, you don’t just go off like that in public."

Sam’s forehead creased in concentration. "He was going to use it, Dean. I saw him reach for it."

Dean wanted to believe him, wanted to take Sam at his word, but the behavior had been so erratic, so extreme. "Sam…"

"You have to believe me. I wouldn’t—I mean, I would never just go off."

"So how do you explain it?"

"His eyes--he was possessed."

"Possessed? Sam, I saw the guy. He looked completely normal."

"Dean, I saw it. It was real."

"Sam, that guy has never held a gun I his life. And there were no signs of possession. Did you say Christo?"

Sam didn't take to Dean's logic. "You don’t believe me?"

Dean hesitated. Maybe if the guy hadn’t been so pathetic looking. Maybe if the place hadn’t been so crowded. Maybe if Sam hadn’t collapsed afterwards. Maybe if Sam didn’t look so fragile. "Sam—"

"After all of this," Sam said. "After everything, you don’t believe me."

"Sam, I know you saw something, okay? I know you believe what you saw. But, Sam—you haven’t exactly been on your game lately. You’ve been sleepwalking, disappearing on me, not sleeping, and then you go off on some pencil pusher in a diner over lunch? You’re not a hit-first-ask-questions-later kind of guy, Sammy."

Sam looked desperate, his eyes beseeching for some kind of understanding. "Dean…"

"Sam…"

"Please…"

Dean averted his brother's eyes. The desperate look in Sam's eyes threatened to weaken his resolve. "You need to get some rest, Sammy. Some real rest. Some real food."

There was no reply.

When Dean looked back up, he could see the defeat on his brother’s face. His voice was soft. "Let’s get you back to the motel."

Sam’s chin wavered and his eyes were bright. His shoulders were slumped and he seemed to be barely standing.

"Sam?"

Sam blinked, swallowing with effort. "Yeah."

OOOOOOO

Sam had given in to Dean's near-order that he lay down and get some rest, recognizing the concern that laced his brother's angry tone and filled his flashing eyes. In truth, Sam was eager to escape from the events of the day--and from the knowledge that Dean hadn't believed him. That had been more painful than anything, that Dean had dismissed Sam's explanations, blaming them on fatigue and poor nutrition. He knew Dean hadn't meant to hurt him, but to have Dean look at him in that pitying way, as though Sam were someone to be comforted and helped, like some victim of one of their hunts...that had stung more than Sam cared to admit.

So it was actually a relief to burrow into the covers, his back to his brother, and pretend that Dean's disbelief hadn't started to undermine his own confidence in himself. It wasn't something they talked about--it wasn't something they needed to talk about--but they were each other's foundation. If Dean was truly starting to doubt him, how would he possibly have faith in himself?

Chapter Nine

The rest of the day passed in tense silence. Dean refused to leave Sam alone, but Sam refused to sleep. He laid down on the bed, turned his body away from Dean, but wouldn't close his eyes, and Dean had to restrain himself from taking to desperate measures. Exhaustion would catch up with Sam, he figured, and if he kept his brother locked up in the motel room, he wouldn't have many other options but to sleep eventually.

They didn't speak and hardly met each other's eyes, each afraid of what they might find there.

That had been their policy with most things: ignore and hope everything uncomfortable went away. Dean had never been a touchy-feely kind of guy, and emotions were things he felt but rarely gave voice to. Whenever he tried, he found there were never any words, that his throat seemed too tight, and Sam knew it all anyway. So it didn't seem entirely necessary to sit down and talk it out, especially when denial seemed to get them so far.

Besides, what would they say this time? Neither knew what to be sorry for or exactly why they were upset. The conflict had not exactly exploded to a full-blown fight. In fact, neither of them really knew at all what was going on, just that they had a problem that definitely needed to go away.

Dean figured most of the battle was getting Sam's body to succumb to its sleepiness and that Sam wouldn't have that look in his eyes when he woke up again. He could wait out Sam's stubbornness until then.

Sleep had a cleansing effect for them. Sleep had erased Sam's actions at the asylum. Sleep had dampened their fury against each other when Sam left for California instead of Indiana as their father had instructed. Sleep had made watching their father disappear after Chicago less of a heartbreak.

Neither brother was foolish enough to believe that sleep actually healed anything, but both relied on it enough as their means of escape, their way of starting over. Sleep let the pain of the day become a memory, fuzzy and distant, sometimes lingering, but never with clarity. Right now, sleep was the only solution.

Still, Sam dreaded sleep more than he did his brother's admonitions, and he resisted unconsciousness with all he had in him.

It was still early when Dean made a point of readying himself for bed. "Time to turn in for the night," he said as he laid himself into the bed.

Sam said nothing.

Dean sighed. "Sammy, things will be better in the morning. Trust me, okay?"

Sam didn't move, didn't acknowledge his brother at all.

Giving up, Dean turned off the light, hoping the darkness would lull his brother into sleep,

OOOOOOO

He couldn't breathe.

As he flailed for air, he looked up, searching desperately for his answer.

And he saw his brother's face.

"You abandoned me."

Sam tried to shake his head, tried to deny, but nothing got out his throat.

"Betrayer."

Dean's hands were around his throat, squeezing, tightening, and Dean's body pinned his own. His struggles were futile.

Dean leaned in, pulled his face close to Sam so his fading eyes could see. "You are the betrayer."

Everything buzzed, everything hurt, and then everything was black.

Sam blinked wildly, taking a gasping breath, then another, a hand to his throat and he realized he could breathe.

He blinked again. A nightmare. It was just a nightmare.

He let out a relieved sob, letting himself relax into the pillow.

Betrayer.

Sam stiffened, trying to convince himself he imagined it.

Betrayer. You cannot run.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, willing it to be another dream.

Betrayer.

Sam trembled as he pushed himself off the bed. The darkness was suddenly disconcerting and he groped desperately for the bathroom. Once inside, he closed the door and turned on the light, willing the voice to vanish with the darkness.

For a moment, he considered waking Dean, trying to explain the voice to him.

Then he laughed a short nervous laugh. Dean already thought he was unhinged; telling him he was hearing voices would not help matters.

Betrayer.

Sam jumped, turning to find the source of the voice, but seeing nothing but generic stained tile.

Betrayer.

He spun again, finding himself back toward the mirror, alone in the empty bathroom. He was panting now, his breath coming in tight gasps. "Who’s there?" he finally ventured.

A host of whispers began to rise, filling the bathroom.

Betrayer.

"No…" he protested, backing up. But there was nowhere to go. His eyes searched frantically, hoping to find the source, hoping to figure out what was after him. Coldness began to seep into his body.

Sam’s eyes darted to the mirror and he opened his mouth to scream when he saw the dark figure poised behind him.

But the whispers stole his breath and robbed his ability to think and he felt himself falling before he could stop it.

OOOOOOO

A light breeze fluttered over him, rippling coolly over his face and arms. Slightly roused, Dean shifted to his side, curling back up in the refuge of sleep.

The faint sound of a whisper tickled his mind, and he almost attributed it to sleep, to the beckoning of a dream, but it lilted with the breeze.

He came awake when he remembered that he never slept with the windows open.

His eyes pierced the darkness. He studied the walls, the cheap motel room art, the rickety furniture.

Nothing.

He let his gaze fall to Sam’s bed and his heart caught in his throat. The sheets were rumpled, half flung off. The bed was empty.

He was out of bed instantly, flicking on the light. "Sammy?"

Hurriedly, he searched the floor, finding no signs of his little brother.

There was a small hissing, an unintelligible muttering from behind the bathroom door, which was slighlty ajar. He edged closer.

"Sam?"

His hesitance to invade Sam’s privacy abruptly ended when he was a flash of movement and heard a loud thump.

He maneuvered the door open, with care that belied his haste, squeezing in and kneeling beside Sam’s fallen form.

It took his stunned brain a moment to realize that Sam was convulsing, tremors ripping through Sam’s body, jerking it roughly against the contents of the cramped room. His head twitched sideways, hitting against the tub repetitively.

"Sammy…." Dean’s voice was no more than a breath as he hovered over his brother, trying to figure out what to do.

His panic paralyzed him for a only a moment before he sprang to life. He pulled at the towels on the towel rack, rolling them up and placing them near Sam—not close enough to constrict him but enough to protect his body from the walls, the tub, the toilet. He grabbed his cell and dialed the three numbers with shaking fingers.

"9-1-1. What is your emergency?"

"My brother. He’s having a seizure." His own voice sounded foreign and saying the words aloud made his own chest hitch with fear.

He gave the rest of the required information, still kneeling by Sam’s side. His own shakinesss increased as Sam spasmed uncontrollably.

The operator was talking, asking question, offering vague reassurance, but Dean couldn't hear her, couldn't hear anything over the sound of Sam's body against the tile.

He had just hung up when Sam finally stilled. He placed a hand at Sam’s neck, frantically searching for a pulse. It was faint, so faint, but it was there. He had to put his ear almost on top of his brother’s nose, but he was rewarded with the shallow pull of Sam’s breaths.

"Come on, Sammy," he muttered and placed an unsteady hand on his brother’s cheek. Time seemed to stretch so slowly and Sam’s complexion seemed to gray considerably with each passing minute before he heard the wail of the approaching ambulance siren.

Chapter Ten

Sam felt his body bouncing.

"Sammy?"

Dean? He felt himself jolt again.

"Are you awake?"

It was then that Sam realized his eyes were open and he was staring up. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam."

He could hear the relief in Dean’s voice. His eyes took in the closed space, the equipment, the man in the uniform standing at his side, finally his brother, who was watching him intently. "What happened?"

"You passed out, little brother."

"Sam?" the man on the other side was talking to him. "Can you look at me, please?"

It slowly occurred to Sam that he was in an ambulance. His eyes wandered back to the EMT.

"Good," the man said. "Follow the light."

Something bright was shone into Sam’s eyes and he squinted, trying to turn away, but found himself immobilized.

"Good," the man said again.

He was so tired. Every muscle ached like he had had an electrical shock. He flashed briefly to an image of Dean, lying motionless and pale in a puddle of water, his heart no longer beating.

His stomach turned and he closed his eyes.

"Sam?"

Sam tried to swallow away the growing nausea, squeezing his eyes more tightly shut. "M'okay, Dean..."

He drifted to sleep without meaning to.

When he awakened, he noticed he wasn't bouncing anymore. The lights were brighter here though and it smelled funny. He was at the hospital.

He raised his head quickly, trying to figure out what was going on.

Gentle hands pushed him back down.

"Easy, little brother."

Sam fought a wave of dizziness. "What's going on?"

Dean could hear the fear and confusion in Sam's voice, and he left a hand on Sam's chest, patting it protectively. "We just got to the hospital. Do you remember the ambulance?"

Sam remembered the bouncing and the EMT. He nodded.

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. At least Sam hadn't forgotten anything. That had to be a good sign.

Sam felt something tight on his arm, something putting pressure on his finger. His eyes sought wildly until he recognized the person at his side as a nurse, smiling as she fiddled with the blood pressure cuff. Looking down, he saw the clip on his finger.

He let his eyes follow the line from the clip stretching up behind his head, intermingling with a host of other cords, which he suddenly realized were all hooked up to him.

He felt himself tensing as he heard voices speaking all around him.

"...we'll need a CT..."

"...vitals are stable..."

"...get the saline started..."

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Sam?"

He wanted to ignore them; it was a dream, always a dream.

"Sammy, open your eyes."

Dean's voice was stern and uncompromising. He opened his eyes and flinched when he didn't see his brother.

"Sam," a doctor said. "How are you feeling?"

Sam felt Dean's hand still lingering on his arm. He swallowed. "I'm fine. Just a little tired."

The doctor offered an empty smile as he accepted a printout from a nurse. He pursed his lips as he read it. Then he peered over the half-moon of his glasses at Dean. "I'm afraid we'll have to ask you to leave for a bit while we run some tests."

Dean started to rise, but Sam reached for him, his movements frantic and jerky. He couldn't be alone. Not again. Not when it was always so close. "Dean, don't leave me."

Leaving was the last thing Dean wanted to do, but he was worried about Sam. In fact, it was fair to say that since seeing his brother writhing on the floor of their bathroom, he was terrified for him. All Dean wanted was for the doctor to figure out what was wrong with Sam so that he could get better.

"Just relax, Sammy," Dean said, gripping his hand. "They've just got to figure out what happened, okay?"

"Dean—"

"I’ll be right in the other room, okay?"

Sam felt his heart race for a moment, but the sure look on Dean’s face made his protests dissipate.

"It’s going to be okay, Sam."

Sam held Dean’s gaze for as long as he could, until he disappeared behind the swinging doors of the trauma room.

He felt himself being moved, lifted, and repositioned. As his eyes focused, he realized he was surrounding by people, all hovering around him and moving purposefully, doing thing, doing important things...what were they doing?

"I’m Dr. Siela," the man with the glasses said, meeting his gaze. "Do you remember what happened?"

Sam grimaced as he felt hands probing his body. "I…I was in the bathroom."

"Anything else?"

Sam tried to shake his head. "I…"

A light shift of air settled over him and he felt his breath catch in his throat. Betrayer.

It was here.

"Sam?"

It was here. How could it be here? How can it be everywhere?

Sam tried to focus, tried to turn his attention back to the doctor, but he felt his resolve shaking. No. Not here. Not again.

"Sam?"

You are the betrayer.

He had to get out of here. The doctors and nurses paid no heed, still moving about him. What were they doing?

"His heart rate is increasing."

"BP’s rising."

Someone cut away his shirt and Sam shivered.

"No. Don’t. Look," Sam said with a nervous laugh. "I’m fine. I don’t need—"

They didn’t listen, and their fluid movements seemed to become more rapid above his head.

"Please," Sam said again. He had to get out of here. Pulling at the wires attached to him, he tried to sit up. "I don’t—"

He found himself restrained. A head wavered above him, looking down at him. "We’re here to help." It was a nurse, a pretty one, too. She was young, blonde. Dean would like her. Her smile was full and she had a dimple in her left cheek.

Her smile assuaged his anxiety and he let himself relax.

"You need help," she said, her voice suddenly too sweet, dripping with something Sam couldn’t place.

Then her eyes, once round and blue, blackened, and her smile twisted sadistically. "You are weak."

Her voice was like acid now, and it burned his mind. "No…" he protested, pulling again as best he could. As he flailed for freedom, hands anchored him, tied him down. He had no escape, nowhere to turn, and he could not take his eyes from the face above him.

"Surrender, betrayer."

A chill racked his body and he struggled futilely against his bonds. He had no recourse. He was completely vulnerable to whatever they tried to do to him.

Distantly he could hear the noise of the trauma room, the hurried tones of the doctors. "…sedate him."

"He pulled the IV."

"Doctor, I think he’s seizing—"

He could barely feel their hands now, working about him, and his vision tunneled darkly, until all he could see were the eyes above him.

You are mine.

Chapter Eleven

Dean leaned back in the chair, his leg bouncing unconsciously as he chewed his lower lip.

Hospital waiting rooms were not unfamiliar to him, nor was the feeling of helplessness that invariably accompanied them.

But no waiting room had ever been this unsettling.

Sometimes hunts went bad, sometimes they went really bad, and the waiting room served as the place were adrenaline dwindled and the question of what went wrong was identified and answered, over and over again.

Dean’s adrenaline had definitely faded, but the question of what went wrong had never been so elusive.

Usually he could pinpoint a flaw—being too slow, being unprepared, being caught off guard. These were things he could analyze and fix, things he could identify and solve.

This time—

He didn’t know what to think about this time. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was the look of Sam’s body, twitching on the floor before it fell deadly still.

This time, Dean didn't know what happened. He didn't know what lies to feed the doctors and nurses because he was as clueless as the rest of them.

There were acceptable risks in their line of work, and each Winchester had paid his dues with blood and broken bones. They'd seen each other through concussions and stitches, hospital stays and home therapy.

He had been scared before. He'd been scared the first time Sam had gotten knocked unconscious, when he'd first seen his baby brother go down and not get up. He'd been scared the first time Sam had really gotten sliced, nice and deep, and the sight of his brother's blood had made him nauseous even when his father said it wasn't that serious. In fact, he'd been scared every time he'd seen Sam hurt, that momentary sensation of disconnectedness, of denial, of proverbial crap hitting the fan.

But the moments had always passed. Even Sammy's hospital stays had never been that long or that stressful, and Dean had always been able to pass the time in reflection of what he could do better next time.

This time, he hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't missed pulling Sammy away from a poltergeist; he hadn't been too slow in shooting away a spirit. This time, he had just woken up and found his brother having a seizure. And he still had no idea why.

He could understand when Sam got a concussion from being thrown into another wall. He could understand Sam getting stitches after a run in with a creative poltergeist. He could understand when Sam sprained his ankle in a scuffle with a not-so-happy spirit.

He understood those things better than most doctors ever would and they were things he counted on, things that made waiting rooms a hell of a lot less scary and a lot more self-deprecating.

But he didn't understand anything this time.

He didn't know if the nightmares were connected to it, if Sam had even been sleeping or eating at all since they'd left California, or what it all meant. He didn't know if the cause was supernatural, or if someone was after Sam, or if Sam's psychic brain was tripping out on a lack of nutrition and rest.

Most of all--worst of all--he didn't know if Sam was going to be okay.

He let his head hang in his hands and he thought about calling his father.

When the doctor came out, Dean recognized him before the doctor had to ask for him.

"How is he?"

"Mr. Clarke, we’ve got your brother settled into a room. Currently he’s stable, but he’s still unconscious. He had another seizure in the trauma room before we were able to stabilize him."

Dean's mind reeled a little from the new information, but he forced himself to focus. "What caused it?"

"CT was normal—we can’t find anything in his brain to explain it. The tox screen shows nothing out of the ordinary in his system," the doctor said. He paused, pursing his lips. "You’re sure Sam doesn’t take any medications or have any drug habits?"

Dean shook his head quickly. "No, never. What's wrong with him?"

The doctor pursed his lips. "Sam was severely dehydrated and exhausted. It looks as if he has hasn’t slept or eaten in days. This, in extreme circumstances, can cause seizures like Sam’s."

"So is he okay?"

"It takes the body awhile to recover from seizures, but we were able to contain the second seizure quickly. I don't think there'll be any lingering physical after-effects. We’ve got him on a saline solution to get him hydrated again."

Dean could sense there was something more. "What aren't you telling me?"

Dr. Siela took a breath. "Sam was conscious when he was brought in. He was fairly oriented. But while we were examining him, he suddenly became very agitated and somewhat disoriented. We can’t find a medical reason."

Dean waited for the other shoe to fall. "So?"

The doctor sighed, his brows knitting together thoughtfully. "We have to consider all the reasons for his status. Right now, beyond the dehydration and exhaustion, there is no physiological reason for Sam's condition. So there may be some underlying condition we haven't discovered yet or it could be something psychological. We're still running tests, but we do plan to have a psychiatrist come and assess Sam."

Dean's knee-jerk reaction was to tell the doctor off but good. Sam didn't need a shrink. He needed to sleep for twelve hours, wake up, eat a good meal, and sleep for another twelve. He needed to sit out in the sun long enough to get some color back in his skin. He needed to kick back with a couple of beers, laugh, smile, and just forget about everything for awhile.

But the protest never made it out of Dean's throat. Because just as quickly as his defense of Sam came, so did the memory of Sam's behavior over the last few days - how much Sam hadn't slept, how little he'd eaten, how off he'd been acting.

Sam seemed sure it was supernatural, but no demon or ghost had ever given Sam a seizure before.

Until he could figure it out for sure, Dean was starting to think it might be better to let the doctors have a crack at figuring Sam out. At the very least, it couldn't hurt.

"Okay," he finally agreed, feeling deflated. "But can I see him?"

"Of course," Dr. Siela replied easily. "Though he is in a deep state of unconsciousness; it's common after seizures like Sam's. It'll probably take a few hours for him to come out of it."

Dean's throat was too tight to reply, so he nodded, blinking back the unfamiliar burning in his eyes.

OOOOOOO

Unconsciousness was not kind to Sam. The normally healthy glow of his skin had been completely depleted, leaving his skin pallid and colorless. Sam's hair fell away from his forehead, swept away in the chaos of the night. His eyes seemed sunken, set deeply within the sockets, shaded by darkness underneath.

Dean had seen Sam out of it before, but never like this. Sam seemed like nothing more than a hollowed-out shell, a body caving in on itself. The only time that had ever been close were the days following Jessica's death.

Sam's grief had been visceral then, ravaging his senses and leaving him groping in the aftermath. Sam had forgotten all the necessities of life, and Dean was certain that if he hadn't been there to feed him and make sure he went to bed, Sam would have self-destructed.

But Sam had pulled through, had come back into himself, and had managed to keep himself from falling apart in the face of his growing adversities.

Dean leaned over his brother's sleeping form, trying to assure himself of Sam's presence. He felt his heart begin to beat in tandem with the beeping on the monitor, and let his chest follow the rise and fall of Sam's.

For a minute, Dean thought to make a wisecrack, but couldn't bring his throat to work. He let out a strangled laugh instead as his hand hovered above his brother's head.

"Geez, Sammy," he breathed. "Don't you know you're not supposed to pull stunts like this on vacation? Wait till we're on a hunt so you can actually get out of work."

He didn't expect Sam to reply, but the silence haunted him. His brother hadn't been the talkative type recently, but even just the sound of his brother's voice was comforting, gave him reason to be strong, to keep it together. Without someone to put on a facade for, Dean felt weak.

"It's okay," he said softly. "You're going to be okay."

He watched Sam's unmoving face, his still limbs, and wished that Sam's unconsciousness was providing him the reprieve that sleep had not been able to.

He was still standing there, firmly by Sam's side, when the nurse came back in to check on them.

She had to coax Dean from the room, telling him that Sam needed to be examined, that his brother was fine at the moment, that she would come get him the minute anything changed.

She led Dean to the waiting room and left him there, and Dean watched her go, his eyes fixed on the blank walls long after she had left the hallway.

He wondered if this it what Sam had felt when Dean had been in the hospital--this numbing, encompassing terror that now crept through Dean's own veins. He could still see that pained, desperate look in Sam's eyes as Dean joked about his own death, and suddenly realized how wrong it had been. Dean's self-defense had come at the expense of Sam's heart. How Sam prevailed when he had been so flippant, he wasn't sure.

How had Sam had the strength to do anything at all?

He didn't know, but he knew he needed to be that strong for Sam, that persistent for Sam. No matter what was wrong, Dean would do anything to make him better.

OOOOOOO

"Sam?"

He was tired of people talking to him, tired, tired, tired.

"Sam?"

His eyes were open. Something was wrong. Why wouldn't they just go away?

"Do you know where you are?"

Sam’s eyes searched the ceiling frantically, his mind racing. "…hospital?"

"Good. What’s your name?"

He looked again at the doctor. The doctor looked plain, nondescript--they all had white coats--and this one wore a tie. The tie was so blue. Sam couldn’t move his hands.

"Sam," he finally answered.

The doctor nodded.

Where was Dean? What was their cover story?

"What day is it?"

Why was he here?

"Do you know why you’re here?"

His eyes traveled down his body. His clothes were gone. He was in a hospital gown. His hands were tied down in soft restraints at the bedrails. Why was he tied down?

"Sam?"

He looked back at the doctor. "I—" he tried, but nothing else came to him.

The doctor made a note on his clipboard, nodding patiently.

A nurse came into the room, pleasantly smiling as she checked the equipment. He watched her distractedly.

"Sam?" the doctor asked.

Sam was about to look back at him when the young woman turned her eyes to Sam, darkness engulfing them.

Sam flinched and whimpered. It was still here.

"Sam? What's wrong? What do you see?"

Sam glanced frantically to the doctor and back to the nurse.

The doctor followed his gaze, perplexed. "That's just Nurse Webber."

Sam's mind raced. Couldn't he see it? Couldn't he see her eyes? His breath quickened as his eyes darted desperately between the two medical personnel in the room.

The nurse looked hesitant to make a move that might further upset the young man. "Doctor?" she asked tentatively, her hands pulled away from the equipment.

"Sam? What's wrong?"

Sam looked wildly up. "I--can you--I mean--please, I want to leave."

A monitor was beeping. The doctor exchanged a glance with the nurse. "Sam, you need to calm down," he said evenly, moving closer toward the young man.

Sam pulled desperately against his restraints, his body straining with the effort. "Please," he begged, tears beginning to cloud his vision. "I have to get away."

The doctor put a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder, attempting to still him. "Sam, I need you to look at me. Look at me, son. If you don’t calm down, we’re going to have to sedate you again, do you understand?"

Sam was shaking, cold shivers running up and down his body. He flinched at the doctor’s touch, but allowed his calming and steady voice to direct his attention.

"Good," Dr. Ness said, as Sam made eye contact. "Now tell me what you saw."

Sam’s mouth trembled. He couldn't tell them, not when they didn't see, not with her standing there staring at him like that. He looked at her again and her gaze intensified, piercing him nearly physically. "No..." he whispered softly, closing his eyes.

"Sam, what's wrong?"

Tentatively, Sam opened his eyes, letting them turn from the doctor to the young woman at his side. He braced himself for what he was to see and his breath caught in his throat as he stared up into the wide, doe-shaped, blue eyes of Nurse Webber.

The doctor took Sam’s silence and disbelief as his answer. "Okay, Sam," he said. "We’re going to keep monitoring you."

Sam shook his head tightly. "No, that's not necessary. I'm ready to go. My brother is--"

The doctor interrupted him with a gentle but firm hand to his arm. "Your brother agreed that you needed to stay here a little longer, Sam."

Sam was incredulous. There was no way that Dean would ever agree to this, would ever just leave him here without talking to him first. Dean didn't play by doctor's rules, ever, unless--

Sam didn't finish his thought.

"I'm going to talk with him. He'll be in to visit with you afterwards, I'm sure, and then you and I can talk more as well."

Sam just stared, feeling as though his world was collapsing around him. Dean couldn't--he wouldn't--

The doctor left, and Sam tried to clear his mind, not picturing the way the nurse's eyes had changed, not remembering the whisper that had haunted his thoughts for days.

You are mine.

He shuddered.

But most of all, he tried to not think about how Dean, his brother, the only person in his life that he could truly count on, had left him there.

Alone.

Chapter Twelve

Dean clenched his hands into fists, but made an effort to keep them in his lap. He needed to focus, to hear everything the doctor was saying to him. Normally, the after-care instructions were things Dean already knew--change the bandage, watch for infection, take the antibiotics. But as the doctor in front of him had introduced himself, Dean had known right then that this time was different. Dr. Robert Ness, Head of Psychiatry.

Any other time, he would have taken Sam and bolted. But this time he couldn't, he just couldn't, because he didn't really know what was wrong with Sam or how to make his brother better. So he let the doctor lead him to his office, seat him in a padded chair, and explain his take on Sam's condition.

"Medically, his seizure was caused by dehydration and exhaustion. However, for someone to let their body get to that state—that’s a more serious concern right now. Sam would have had to be depriving himself of drink and sleep for an extended period of time for his body to respond in this way. We have to look at that as a symptom of a greater problem."

"What kind of problem?"

The doctor sighed, weighing his words. "A psychological problem."

The words made Dean bristle. "Sam’s not crazy."

"Crazy is not a clinical term," the doctor said. "However, after talking to Sam, even after he’s been hydrated, I have reason to worry about his mental stability."

"What do you mean?"

"While I was talking to him, he became extremely agitated. He wouldn't elaborate, but his body language suggested he was seeing something, something that clearly was not there. Before he even became fully conscious, he was trying to get out of the room--the nurse had to put him in soft restraints to keep him from injuring himself. The doctors in the emergency room reported similar behavior. Have you noticed anything like that?"

Dean tried not to give away the twinge of panic that shot through him. Sam would know better than to tell a doctor, but what could spook Sam to the extent of not being able to hide it? He fought to control his composure, but the doctor was studying him closely. "Sam's, uh--pretty quiet."

The doctor looked skeptical, well aware that Dean hadn't answered the question. "Clearly he is not living in a completely altered state—he still knows who he is and what’s going on around him. But he's paranoid and is perhaps suffering from hallucinations. Now we've run various tests and ruled out the majority of physical conditions that would cause this type of state. We've also ruled out schizophrenia, though Sam is the right age for that."

Dean found himself unable to speak.

"His neglect of his body suggests either a self-destructive nature or an extreme inability to self-assess. He does not seem aware of how his lack of sleep and eating have affected him, which he should. People don't act like that for no reason. Has your brother been under any unusual stress? Has he suffered any emotional trauma?"

Dean tried to shrug, tried to find a lie, but his bravado could not be summoned. He looked meekly at the floor. It couldn't just be psychological. Sam was right; it had to be supernatural . . . it had to be.

"I realize this is difficult for you, but your brother’s mental state is very unstable. If we’re going to figure out what’s wrong with Sam, we have to understand his physical and psychological condition right now."

Dean’s dealings with doctors usually consisted of half-truths and flippant write-offs. But the doctor’s stare pierced him, and Sam’s condition terrified him. Even if this was all for nothing, it couldn't hurt to venture a little honesty. For Sam's sake. "His girlfriend died. About eight months ago."

The doctor took in the information with a note of surprise. "I see," he mused. "Was it unexpected?"

"Yeah," Dean said softly, looking away. "He saw it happen. It was…a fire. Sam made it out. She didn’t."

"How did Sam respond?"

Dean felt exasperated. "How do you think he responded? For awhile he didn’t know what to do, how to feel. He got angry. And then, I don’t know. He just got quiet."

"Has he seen anyone about it?"

Dean shook his head and looked away.

"Do you discuss it much with him?"

Biting his lip, Dean shook head again. "Not much."

The doctor made a small sound in his throat. "And what has your brother been doing since the accident?"

"What do you mean?"

"Has he been working, going to school…that kind of thing?"

Dean searched the wall, looking for a lie that seemed least offensive. "We’ve been taking some time off. Road tripping."

"Road tripping. Just you and him?"

"Yeah, you know. Seeing the country, that kind of thing."

The doctor made the noise again, that almost condemning click of his tongue. "Well, that certainly makes sense," he said. "Based on what you've told me and Sam's current state, I'm thinking it is a combination of post traumatic stress and a transient, unstable lifestyle. Sam's world lacks consistency, foundation. Of course, we'll have to do more assessment before we can figure out the best treatment for Sam, but it seems likely from what I've seen and what you've told me that Sam is suffering from brief reactive psychosis, which you might think of as a nervous breakdown."

Dean's immediate response was again to protest. He knew his brother, knew Sam far better than any doctor ever would. And Sam wasn't crazy. Sam was fine. Sam doesn't need anything I can't give him.

But the doctor's words struck a chord, explaining Sam's behavior in ways he had not been able to after days of retrospection.

As much as Dean wanted to deny it, he couldn't, he couldn't bring himself to reject the doctor's words. Brief reactive psychosis. It hit him hard. Psychosis. "What does that mean?"

The doctor shifted patiently. "It can happen sometimes following a traumatic event, especially when the grief remains unresolved. Fortunately, usually the psychosis is temporary, and tends to pass on its own within two weeks if Sam can stay in a safe and consistent environment. Sometimes drugs are used to control it, but we wouldn't take any steps until we further assess Sam's condition and what triggered the onset of the psychosis."

It didn't get easier to hear the word, but it was harder and harder to expel from the realm of possibility. Sam's erratic behavior. Sam's nightmares.

He took a shaky breath. Whatever was going on with Sammy, the hospital would be a place where Sam would be safe while they sorted it all out. "Can I see him?"

OOOOOOO

Sam's room was dimmed and the shades were pulled. Dean entered quietly, expecting to find his baby brother tucked under the neutral hospital sheets on the bed. He nearly called for the nurse when he found it empty.

But before he could open his mouth, Sam's voice stopped him. "Dean. Thank God."

Startled, Dean turned to find his brother standing in the shadowed corner behind a chair. The relief in Sam's face was palpable. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"No. We have to leave. They took my clothes, but we need to leave."

Dean moved slowly toward his brother. "I think maybe we should stay," he suggested, trying to sound casual. "Such good food."

Sam flinched at Dean's words, still huddled in the corner like a frightened animal.

"What are you doing in the corner?"

"It's here."

"What's here?"

Sam looked nervously toward the door. "I don't know for sure, but I saw it."

Dean controlled a spike of worry and doubt. "You saw it? Where?"

"In her eyes. The nurse. Her eyes were black. She's...she's...possessed."

Dean paused, trying to balance the doctor's insight with his trust in his kid brother. "The nurse is possessed? Which one?"

Sam nodded vigorously. "The blonde one. Webber. I don't know what it wants. And it doesn't stay there. In the nurse, I mean. It moves in and out, but it's here, Dean, it's here."

Sam sounded confident, but Dean could not help but notice how gaunt Sam looked. He doubted his brother could stand much longer without passing out. "Okay. We can check it out. But you need to get back to bed, okay?"

Panicked, Sam's eyes widened. "No," he hissed. "They--they tried to tie me down. I can't stay here."

"Sam--"

But Sam was beyond reason. Dean saw that he had pulled the IV. His brother's legs trembled and he leaned heavily against the chair. Come on, Sammy.

"I need to leave. I’m okay. Really."

Dean moved closer to his brother, reaching his hand out in placation. "You had a seizure."

Sam couldn’t hear. He didn’t care. "It’s after me, Dean, and if I stay here, I have no way of fighting it."

"What’s after you, Sam?"

"I don’t know," he said in an explosive whisper. "I don’t know. But it’s everywhere."

The outburst shook Sam and Dean reached out as his brother's balance wavered. "Let's get you back to bed, okay?"

Sam didn't have the energy to resist, leaning heavily against his brother, but he kept on in gasping breaths. "Please, Dean. Don't make me stay."

"You're going to be fine, okay? I'll make sure of it."

"But--"

"I'll check it out, okay? I'll look for the nurse. I'll ask around, say Christo a bunch. If there's something here, I'll find it."

"It moves, though, Dean, everywhere," Sam mumbled as they reached the bed. "I saw it all over town. It could leave."

"I know, okay? Don't worry about it. I'll give the whole town a once over, but you've got to stay here."

"I don't want to be alone," Sam said, his eyes staring up as he sunk back into the bed.

Dean's breath caught in his throat. Sam so rarely admitted his vulnerabilities, and it hurt Dean to see Sam so desperate. "Don't worry about a thing," Dean assured him with more confidence than he felt. "I'm going to take care of everything."

Sam's eyes still looked afraid, a little desperate, but Sam's body began to relax and he slipped away into sleep.

Dean collapsed into the chair and watched the steady rise and fall of Sam's chest. Something was wrong with Sam, Dean was sure of it. His brother's behavior was irrational and childlike, spurred on by emotion and expressed chaotically. And the seizures weren't something to ignore.

The doctor's diagnosis made sense, but Sam didn't seem the type. After all, Sam was a Winchester, and they were strong. Their father had gone for 22 years without as much as a visit to a shrink.

Dean stopped that train of thought, realizing with a bitter smile that his father was not exactly the poster child for healthy coping skills.

But his father had kept it together. He hadn't fallen apart psychologically, and he couldn't peg that for Sam either, especially when Sam was so sure that something was after him.

Either way, he had to get serious. His attention to the research Sam forced on him since coming here had been half-hearted and meager; it was time to focus a lot more.

Starting with finding the nurse. He studied his brother again, noting the IV dripping steadily onto the floor. Who better to restart an IV than a nurse?

OOOOOOO

"Nurse Webber?"

She smiled broadly at him. "Yes?"

"You're Nurse Webber?"

Her blonde ponytail swung as she nodded her head. "Yes."

"You helped my brother, Sam?"

She looked thoughtful for a moment before replying, "Yes, the young man with the seizure. His vitals are looking much better since we hydrated him."

"Yeah, that's what I wanted to ask about. I think he accidentally pulled his IV."

Her eyes went round and Dean looked deeply into them. "We'll have to restart that right away," she said.

All Dean could manage was a disappointed, "Yeah." Her eyes were round and deep and crystal blue.

She was heading briskly down the hall and Dean followed her a step behind. With a deep breath, he made one last effort. "Christo," he said, loud enough for her to hear.

She turned and smiled at him funny. "Did you say something?"

"Christo," he said again, his eyes trained on her face.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't speak Spanish."

Dean clenched his teeth and forced a smile. "That's too bad."

OOOOOOO

The nurse fixed Sam's IV but Dean had to sweet talk her into not notifying the doctor of Sam's attempted escape.

Alone in the dark room, Dean leaned back in the chair with a sigh. "I don't know, Sammy. She checks out. Nothing dark in her."

Sam, practically passed out on the bed, offered no reply.

"If there's something after you, kiddo, you know I'll find it," Dean said. He let his eyes traverse Sam's long body, which was covered by the thin hospital blankets. When Sam was stretched out, Dean was always surprised by how much of Sam there was, how his legs seemed to keep going. They almost seemed to stick off the edge of the bed.

Even in the dimness, Sam's features looked pale. The fluids may have helped Sam's vitals, but his complexion remained the same sickly hue. Even in sleep, Sam simply looked exhausted.

Not that Dean could blame him. They had been on the go for months straight, never really slowing their pace since Dean pulled Sam from his burning apartment at Stanford.

Eight months--had it been that long? Dean tried to remember where the time went, how so much time had passed without him paying heed.

Eight months and so little said between them. Eight months and a handful of conversations that were meaningful. Eight months and few insights into the dark workings of his brother's tormented mind. He had seen glimpses. He had seen Sam's rage while hunting the Wendigo, his overwhelming need to make things better, his near-inability to focus on anything except the hunt at hand.

He had seen it with Bloody Mary, when he couldn't ignore just how much Sam's grief over Jess haunted him. Sam hadn't come clean with him then, but he knew Sam blamed himself for her death, a guilt which Dean knew Sam needed to overcome someday or it would overcome him.

He didn't know how true that was until Sam admitted the visions to him when they returned to Lawrence. But Sam's honesty about the visions had defined a shift in their relationship. Sam's grief had turned into angst over what he hadn't prevented, what he could still prevent.

But the grief was still there, along with a host of other resentments and hurts Dean didn't want to think about. Sam's feelings of rejection from their father. Sam's feelings of resentment toward him for being the good little soldier. So much boiled under the surface in his brother, that it seemed to take something supernatural to draw it out of him.

Dean had always figured Sam would talk when he was ready, that he would know when to push Sam, when Sam couldn't deal with it anymore. But, eight months...

Eight months of close calls and near misses.

He sighed, leaning forward. His fingers lingered above Sam's hand, almost touching, but instead gripping the metal bedrail. "I won't let anything else happen to you. You can count on that."

TBC …