Summary: Tag to Born Under a Bad Sign. Amazing episode, but needed some closure. Sam angst, and brotherly moments. One Shot

Author's Notes: My first episode tag... it sort of came to me while I was lying in bed after watching Born Under a Bad Sign. Wow, what an amazing episode. Jared Padalecki is a god. Creeped the hell outta me. Reviews are always appreciated, they make me feel warm and fuzzy. I don't use a beta, so any mistakes are mine.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Count to Ten

The motel room was silent.

A streetlight outside flickered on, and light filtered into the room, through the cheap blinds that only covered half the window. It streaked across the floor and onto the knife, bouncing off of the silver blade as Sam raked it across Steve Wondell's throat. Warm red blood gushed out of his jugular, covering everything, the knife, the floor, Sam's hands -

With a gasp and a jerk, Sam's eyes flew open, feeling his heart beat against his chest like a bass drum. Dean mumbled something about car maintenance and shifted in his sleep.

Trying to even out his breath, Sam scooted backwards, leaning his back against the headboard. His hand reached over to rub the burn mark on his right forearm, feeling the raised, bumpy flesh.

He had felt the demon inside of him – the first time it came in, like a whoosh of hot air that spread from his head to his toes and made him feel heavy, full of lead. He couldn't move, but his fingers flexed, as if admiring a pair of new gloves.

Sam had been gone through most of it. But there were times, five minutes here and there, when he would wake up, he could feel his body, see the world around him, but it wasn't his. He was merely a spectator, watching someone else's dream.

He saw himself smash the window to Steve Wondell's house.

When he woke up again, there was a knife in his hand, and he slit the hunter's throat.

Sam blinked and he was in a motel room, and Dean was on the phone.

"Where the hell are you, are you okay?!"

No, you need to come find me, help me, there's something inside of me, Dean.

He was in another room, and Dean was there. "You'll live…" his own voice said, and Sam wanted to cringe, but he couldn't, he couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. "You'll live to regret this."

Dean was gone, and Jo was there. She was scared and Sam was twisting her blond hair around a knife, taunting her, and he wanted to stop but he didn't.

There was a bang and Dean flipped off the side of the dock. Sam screamed for his brother, but his mouth didn't move.

Sam rubbed a hand over his face and his fingers landed on Bobby's small silver charm, dangling off a chain around his neck. The metal was cool in his warm hand and he didn't know what to do anymore.

A slap across his face, holy water splashed down his front, and this time Sam did scream. He writhed in the chair as his flesh burned –

And then he could breathe again. He could move, he could think, and Dean punched him across the face and Bobby stared.

Sleep wasn't appealing right now, even though his eyelids drooped with exhaustion. He'd slept enough over the past week.

The carpet was rough and the bathroom tile was cold against his bare feet. The fluorescent lights burned his eyes, and he squinted against the harshness, perching himself on the edge of the tub.

Elbows rested against his legs, and Sam let his head drop into his open hands, feeling his long hair through his fingers.

He was still like that when Dean knocked on the door.

"Sammy?"

Dean's voice was muffled and tired through the fake-wood, and Sam could hear the concern.

"Sam?"

Sam grunted in response. He didn't know what to do anymore.

"Did you fall in?"

"I'm fine."

A pause and a sigh and muffled footsteps, the creak as Dean returned to bed.

Sam counted to ten before he got up. He purposely didn't look in the mirror as he passed the sink.

Dean wasn't asleep when Sam crawled miserably back into bed. He pulled the covers over his head, hoping that he could just melt into the mattress.

"Sammy?"

"What?"

A hesitant pause, and under the cover of the blanket, Sam's ears perked up.

"What's it like?"

Sam knew what Dean was asking, but he pretended he didn't.

"What's what like?"

"…you know…"

Sam glared from behind closed eyes. Dean didn't want to say it.

"What, Dean?"

Another pause.

"Being possessed. Having something… inside you."

It's scary as hell, feeling something there, knowing something was there, seeing yourself do things and say things and not having any control. Not knowing what was going to happen or who you were going to hurt. Shooting your brother and smiling.

Sam didn't say anything, so Dean continued, uncharacteristic in his talking.

"I mean, it was freaky as hell for me."

"Sorry." Sam spit out the apology almost automatically.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for."

Abandoning his shelter of sheets and blankets, Sam stared angrily at Dean, eyes glittering. "Dean, I shot you."

Dean was staring at the ceiling, and he waved a hand distractedly. "It wasn't you, Sammy."

"Dean, I killed somebody. I saw myself do it –"

"Hey!" Dean rolled on his side to look at Sam sternly. "It's not your fault, Sam. It wasn't you."

Sam stared, before flopping onto his back. Silence filled the room, deafening in its emptiness.

"Why didn't you do it?"

This time Sam's voice was softer. More vulnerable.

Dean knew what Sam was asking, but he pretended he didn't.

"Why didn't I do what?"

"You promised Dean… you promised you would kill me if it came down to it and I asked you, twice - I told you to do it, and you didn't. After you promised you would."

"Sam –"

"Dean you promised me that you would kill me if you had to–"

"Stop it, Sam!"

Sam shut his mouth and closed his eyes.

Dean took a breath. "What if I had, Sam? What if I had killed you? You were possessed… you weren't… evil."

Sam's lids stayed closed and Dean was grateful. It was easier when he didn't have to look at his puppy-dog eyes.

"I won't be possessed next time, Dean."

"There's not gonna be a 'next time', Sammy. Nothing's gonna happen to you."

"How do you know Dean? You don't know that."

"Yes I do."

"H-"

Before Sam could even ask 'how', Dean interrupted with his usual standby response, officially ruining the moment. "Because I'm the older brother and the older brother is always right."

Sam started to respond, before shutting his mouth in defeat. Dean had officially closed the conversation. He simply snorted, rolling one hundred-eighty degrees onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow.

Dean watched Sam from the other bed, saw the argument die on his lips. He sighed, closed his eyes, and knew this was far from over.