One night in March

Author: Shellsanne

Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam and Dean (with a side of Lucifer)
Genre: heavy on the angst, hurt/comfort/craziness, NO SLASH
Spoilers: This takes place after season 7, episode 15; no spoilers

Comments welcome! Please comment!

x

Lucifer smiled at him in the bathroom mirror.

His face had appeared in the path Sam cleared of steam as he swept a towel across the mirror. Sam didn't startle, didn't react much at all, not even when Lucifer greeted him with a pleasant "Hi, Sam." (Lucifer always seemed happy to see him.) Instead Sam lathered foam on his face and pulled a razor from his toiletry bag.

Lucifer rested his chin on Sam's shoulder and grinned amiably at their reflections in the receding steam. "You just going to pretend I'm not here? Is that your plan?"

"You're not here," Sam muttered quietly as he pressed the razor to his jawline in an upward stroke. "I don't have to pretend."

Lucifer clicked his tongue. "C'mon now, Sam, you know you can't kid a kidder." His eyes were bright, intense, sparkling with amusement, and even as he refused to meet them Sam couldn't help noticing that they looked more alert, somehow more alive, than his own. "And besides, you're so damn good at it, you should be proud. You've become a master in the art of pretense. I mean look at you."

Sam inched just slightly to the left, enough to dislodge the chin from his shoulder, and maintained his focus on the task at hand, clearing foam from his face in smooth lines. "Pretending everything's okay, and you're just going about your business," the face in the mirror continued, his voice lithe and silken, "and nothing's more important than a clean shave … You missed a spot there, Sam," he said, dabbing a finger against Sam's chin. "Just there."

Sam refused to meet his eyes. He concentrated on the slow, even strokes of his razor, and ignored the slight tremor in his hand. Lucifer leaned slightly closer, and when he said "Pretending you haven't changed, that you're the same ol' Sam," Sam could feel the warm breath of his words against his neck, and he could feel the hairs there prickling. "Reliable, soulful, sane …" His smile broadened with the last word and he winked at Sam.

Sam fixed his attention on the sliding motion of the razor against his skin, on the crunching sound the disposable blades made against his bristles. For just an instant he was distracted by the thought that he wasn't controlling the razor at all, that it was moving entirely on its own, that it might begin slicing into his skin whenever it chose. Nonsense of course. He knew he was in control.

Lucifer's smile was unfaltering. It wasn't a malevolent smile, and it wasn't an affectation. He seemed genuinely happy to be sharing Sam's company. Hangin' out. Watching him shave. "How long has it been now, Sam, that you've been steadily going batshit and pretending you're okay? Six months? Seven?" His expression softened into one of gentle concern now. "Of course it's not as easy as it was at first, is it. You're not really pulling it off any more. The cracks are showing, Sam."

Sam dropped his razor into the basin and felt a tiny splash of water on his elbow. It seemed important in moments like these to focus on physical sensations, to allow them to ground him. Especially when he was finding it hard to make himself breathe.

Lucifer gave a little shrug. "Not that there's really anyone around besides me to notice. Anyone who might have cared about you is dead now, right? Thank God for small blessings, huh?" And his eyes positively glistened as he chuckled. "I guess it's just you and your brother now. Oh wait—" His eyes widened, his eyebrows arched. "That's right. Your brother ditched you here nearly a week ago, didn't he. So I guess it's just you then. Well…" He flashed that flawless smile. "You and me."

Sam was dimly aware that his entire body was beginning to shake. But he wouldn't—he couldn't—meet those eyes riveted on his in the mirror. "You aren't real," he sputtered in a voice that sounded far too thin, too anemic to be his own. "You're not here."

"No, he's not here, Sam. Your brother's gone. And that's what you have to come to terms with. I think that's what we have to talk about." His face had changed again, his forehead etched with worry lines, his brows knitted slightly, and the eyes gently imploring, asking to help. The artfully sculpted face of a concerned friend. Or a protective brother. "The fact that you've lost Dean."

Sam closed his eyes. Through clenched teeth he muttered, "Dean's following a lead on Dick Roman. He'll be back."

"Right… How long has he been gone now? A week?"

"Five days."

"How often has he called you? Asked you for your input? Asked you for your help?" There was a long pause. "Asked you how you are?"

"He…" Sam was feeling dizzy. "…texts."

Lucifer's sigh carried a soft hum of compassion.

"Tell me, Sam. How does it feel when the one person in your life who always believed in you, stood at your side, had your back, thought you were worth something, finally… just… gives up?"

"Shut up," Sam snapped, too quietly to carry any weight.

"Not that you can really blame him. I mean, the guy's got his own problems to deal with. You didn't expect him to shoulder yours for the rest of your life, did you?" Sam flinched when a hand touched his shoulder. "Or did you? Oh Sam… You really thought he'd always be there, didn't you? Looking out for you, protecting you, fighting at your side… You thought the two of you would go out like Butch and Sundance, didn't you."

A guttural sound escaped Sam's throat. He tried to cover it by sucking in a deep breath, then releasing it.

"I'm sorry, Sam. The reality is, Dean's only human. There's only so much disappointment a man can take. He really wanted to believe that you would be okay, I know he did. And even when the signs started showing, even when he could see you were losing it, he tried, I mean he really tried. He wanted to keep you with him, he wanted to help you. But… how long do you chase a lost cause?"

Sam kept his eyes clamped shut, concentrated on the sandpapery sound of his breaths as they rasped in and out of his lungs. He counted them … in and out, one … in and out, two … and he wondered fleetingly how long he would be able to stay conscious like this.

"Try to see it from his perspective, Sam," purred Lucifer. "He's lost everything, everyone who ever mattered, apart from you. And then he was losing you too. More and more of you every day. I mean, you… just aren't you any more, kiddo. However much you want to pretend otherwise. He tried not to notice how needy you were becoming. How dependent on him to make decisions, to call the right shots." A soft murmur of sad empathy. "Dean watched you grow into such a strong, confident, independent man, the finest hunter he'd ever fought beside, only to see you shrink into this passive, docile kid, scared of his own shadow these days. Pathetically unable to trust his own judgment. Too weak to stand up to the monsters in his own head, let alone the real ones. Truth is, for the last few weeks, Dean wouldn't have counted on you to swat a fly, let alone behead a big mouth. Dean can't count on you at all any more, Sam. It's no wonder he's left you."

A small whimper managed to push its way from Sam's throat, overriding his best efforts to swallow it back; he'd lost count of his breaths.

"So you see, Sam, he could either stick around and watch you waste away … or he could finally walk away. Finally be free of you."

And that's when Sam's body shuddered as raw emotion tore loose, fueled by the heady mix of exhaustion, desperation and sheer terror he'd been battling all week to control. He felt the hot sting of tears coursing down his face, heard the ragged gasps of sobbing that issued from his throat. He stood there with his eyes closed tight, frozen to the dimly lit spot in front of the bathroom mirror, and he sobbed.

The warmth of the hand on his shoulder felt comforting this time. And he didn't pull away. Time seemed to pass…

Lucifer's voice was very soft when he finally spoke, almost a whisper, and very close to Sam's ear. "It's alright, Sam. You'll get by without him. I promise. I'll help you. We'll do it together…" The cadence of his words had a strangely lulling, seductive effect, and Sam found himself swaying slightly with their ebb and flow, as his sobs began to fade into muffled hitches. He felt something heavy, with the slick coolness of metal, slide silkily into his hand, and he felt Lucifer's hand gently cradle his beneath it. "We'll find a way," Lucifer breathed into his ear, and Sam felt as if he was floating. The metal object in his hand seemed all that tethered him to the floor.

"Open your eyes, Sammy," said Dean.

Sam's eyes snapped open.

Dean smiled at him in the bathroom mirror.

"Dean…?"

"You know I'd do anything for you, Sammy, don't you?" His face brimmed with love.

Sam barely heard himself as he whimpered, "I know…"

"Well, tonight I need you to do something for me …" And Sam felt the pressure of the hand beneath his tighten around his fingers, around the object they both held, and twist, turning his own hand inward toward his chest. "I need you to do the right thing."

"I don't … understand …"

"I know, Sammy." Tears welled in Dean's eyes as he spoke, and Sam found it nearly impossible to look away. He felt captivated by their reflections, as if he were trapped in the mirror itself. "I know you're confused. I know you've been lost for a while now. That's why I need you to trust me. Let me take the lead. And all you have to do is follow. Can you do that for me, Sammy?"

Anything for you, Dean, he wanted to say, but instead he forced himself to blink—just one willful blink—and the momentary break in the dream-like trance allowed his gaze to fall, to drop to his hand, to Dean's hand, and to the heavy object they together clutched. It was a pearl-handled Bowie knife, the clip-top blade at least 10 inches long, its point leveled just below Sam's sternum.

"All you have to do," said Dean, as his fingers squeezed Sam's against the Bowie's handle, "is let me guide you. And we can both … finally … be free."

The image of the blade hovering over his chest blurred as fresh tears flooded Sam's vision. "Okay," he choked out. "Whatever you say, bro. But…" And with a sickening wrench away from the mirror, he turned to the man beside him who looked so much like his brother, and as both hands grasping the Bowie twisted into awkward positions, he faced him. "Let me do this for you by myself. Okay?"

A frown flickered briefly across Dean's brow.

"Please," Sam whispered, allowing the pain that flooded his emotions to resonate through the word.

And with that Dean smiled, gave a little nod, and released Sam's hand.

Sam smiled back at him—a flash of flawless, genuine happiness—then whipped the blade over in his hand, raised it high in a fist and with all his weight and every last ounce of his energy shoved it downward in a fierce arc and plunged it deep into Lucifer's heart, the force of the thrust sending them both crashing backward against the bathroom wall. His brother's face gone now, Sam was peering into the glinting blue eyes and pallid expression of the Lucifer he knew so well, the face less than an inch from his own. Pleasantly Sam said, "Go back to hell, you motherfucker." And then, letting go, he stepped back.

Blood erupted like a geyser from the punctured orifice. It spattered the porcelain sink, the shower curtain, the tiled floor, Sam's shirt. Lucifer stood there for a moment, his countenance one of pale surprise, then very slowly slid down the wall, smearing the seashelled wallpaper with thick streaks of the blood that pumped life from his body.

Sam was shaking uncontrollably. He stood there for a while, staring at the lifeless bloodied heap on the floor. Waiting for the eyes to blink open. Waiting for Lucifer to suddenly grin and say "Gotcha!" After a while he stopped waiting for anything, stopped thinking altogether. He didn't know how long he stood there, but he'd stopped shaking. His breathing had returned to normal. He felt surprisingly calm.

But why should that be a surprise? Killing things was, after all, his job. "And I'm good at it," he muttered.

He glanced down at his blood-soaked hands and turned to the sink. In the basin was a pool of water muddied with shaving-foam and sprinkled with droplets of blood. He pulled out the plug, watched it drain, then held his hands under the cool tap, and watched the blood slowly wash away. He started to glance up, but couldn't quite bring himself to look in the mirror. He sighed, turned off the faucet, headed out. He'd reached the door when he remembered his half-shaved face, and the foam he could just about see on one cheek, and turned back to reach for a towel. And stopped.

Every drop of blood was gone. The tiles, the shower curtain, and the sink were back to their lackluster, questionably hygienic state of seedy-motel clean. There were no smears or stains on the wallpaper. The seashells stood out in their bland beach scheme on the far wall. Halfway up the wallpaper a Bowie knife jutted out of the wall at a severe angle.

Sam didn't react much. He retrieved the hand towel and switched off the bathroom light before closing the door.

x

x

He found himself checking his cellphone before he even knew he was doing it. Checking for messages since he and Dean parted ways had become a mindless, habitual exercise in frustration. As usual, there were no voice messages. Not even a text message this time. He briefly considered texting Dean, then discarded the thought as a particularly pathetic—not to mention absurdly ironic—craving for human contact. Besides, he had texted Dean that morning and was still waiting for a response.

Should he be worried? Should he try phoning? Should he be leaping into the rental and heading off into the night to his brother's last known coordinates?

Sam tossed the phone on his unmade bed and pulled a beer from the fridge. He thought about ordering a pizza. He couldn't really remember when he'd eaten last, but it was late, and he felt vaguely hungry. The luxuries of simple routine—eating, showering, sleeping—had become disordered, blurred and overlapping, over the span of time he'd spent sequestered in this room. Five days bordering on five years. Disjointed memories of what he'd been doing, how he'd spent those five soul-destroyingly, mind-numbingly interminable days and nights, filtered through an overall haze of unreality. Like he hadn't been completely awake for it. Like maybe he'd been sleep-walking.

If not for the journal he'd been keeping, recording his actions, his reactions, and what he perceived to be happening around him, he wouldn't be certain of any of his experiences. He certainly couldn't trust his perception of reality any more.

He sat at the small dinette table, pulled out a pen and opened the notebook that served as his record-keeper. On the page labeled 'Monday', he wrote:

Killed Lucifer.

His pen hovered for a moment. He added:

Again.

He'd have to flip back through the pages to confirm, but he was pretty sure he'd shot Lucifer through the head last Friday.

It had seemed like such a good idea at first, such a reasonable course of action. Most importantly, it had felt like he was finally doing something about his steadily advancing mental meltdown, rather than standing helplessly on the sidelines as he'd been doing for months now. The plan was to choose a chunk of time, during which he wouldn't be hunting, wouldn't be distracted, wouldn't be disturbed by anything of an ordinary nature (ordinary, at least, by Winchester standards), and during that period of quiet, focused stillness, he would literally face his demons. That is, his own particular demon, the Prince of Darkness himself, who'd been taunting and haunting the edges of Sam's world, threatening to burst through the tenuous borders of his reality, ever since The Wall came down.

On the page labeled 'Sunday', he'd written Room set ablaze. He remembered waking up that morning to the fires of Hell all around him, flames licking at his mattress, dancing across the carpet, smoke choking the air from the room. He remembered the smell of burning flesh as the hairs on his forearms singed and the skin beneath began blistering and liquifying. And when the room service maid knocked at the door, it all vanished.

Sam tossed aside the journal, picked up the TV remote control and began scrolling through channels.

Even Dean thought it was a good idea. Or maybe he'd just run out of ideas and thought it was a good excuse to extricate himself from the detached, uncommunicative, awkward apathy that their relationship had slipped into over the past weeks. They hardly talked any more. While Dean sunk ever deeper into what he increasingly regarded as his own private hunt of Dick Roman, rarely sharing his thoughts about it, Sam's hallucinations started up again. They made him progressively more distrustful of his own judgment, until he realized he couldn't rely any more on his instincts, he couldn't have Dean's back as he once did, he could no longer be the hunter he once was; his mere presence posed a risk that Dean couldn't go on ignoring.

Meanwhile, as Sam's confidence in himself diminished, his dependence on his brother steadily grew. It made both of them uncomfortable. It was like they didn't quite know what to do in each other's company these days. And so their conversations would easily evaporate and they'd fall into silence, taking cold comfort in distance. Whether it was out of fear or simple hopelessness, it was as if they'd jointly, wordlessly, decided to pull away and close off from one another.

Sam would never admit it, but he felt heartbroken when Dean so casually agreed to head off on his own to track the lead Frank had provided him, while Sam set up camp on his own, in this fleabag motel, to deal with his…problem. "Nice gig," Dean said. "Kicking back, reading trash novels, watching TV. Checking out the pay-per-view stations," he winked.

It was like Dean had entirely missed the point.

Or he just didn't want to see it any more.

Sam didn't know. Dean didn't really talk to him anymore.

Half the stations were out. The satellite dish was apparently on the blink, and the terrestrial stations rolled in on fuzzy waves. Sam clicked through a handful of clear offerings—a hockey game, a cheesy looking sitcom, a Dirty Harry movie (Dean might've come back if he knew that was on), an episode of Buffy. He stopped on the local news, watched a scantily clad weathergirl point to rainclouds on an oversized map.

In fairness to Dean, Sam hadn't been entirely forthcoming about the purpose of his motel room stay. He hadn't been entirely clear on it himself. He knew only that he planned to finally stop shrinking from the craziness inside his head that wore Satan's face. Open the door, roll out the welcome mat, and invite Lucy in. And stand the fuck up to him.

Of course where that would lead he didn't have a clue. And he sure as hell wasn't going to confess to Dean just how risky it might be. Or just how unstable he was becoming.

Dean didn't know. Sam didn't really talk to him anymore.

It's getting worse, Sam had texted his brother that morning, but I'm okay. He flashed on the Bowie knife gripped wrong-way-around in his own hand, blade poised over his sternum, and found himself regretting that he'd cancelled out the most honest thing he'd said to Dean in weeks with an abject lie.

He stared at the weathergirl's plastic smile, heard the perky recitation of her report (a high pressure system and rain on the way), and let the realization sink in that, not twenty minutes ago, he'd nearly offed himself. He felt a small shiver.

The weathergirl stopped in mid-sentence, turned to the camera with a widening grin, and said, "But you have to admit it was fun, Sam."

Sam blinked at the TV screen.

"Impaling me like that? You know you loved that part." She winked at him. "And I always enjoy feeling your blade thrusting deep inside of me…" Her head tilted back, her eyes rolling up in mock pleasure, and she moaned softly. Then she turned to her right and glanced off-screen. "And that wraps the weather. Back to you, Bob."

"Thanks for that, Deena," said the smartly quaffed suit behind the anchor's desk. Lucifer looked elegant in a dark Armani jacket, white shirt, and blue pinstriped tie. He wore that smile of his—always so pleased to see Sam—as he said, "You know, the news team have got this little bet running, about how you'll eventually be leaving that room—whether it'll be in a straitjacket or a body bag." He leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I shouldn't be telling you this, in case it influences the outcome, but the odds-on favorite is the body bag." Then he sighed. "Personally, I'm hoping it's the jacket. I just think that would be more fun, don't you? And it would mean you and I can hang out together a little longer. Maybe a few weeks, maybe a few months..." His face positively lit up, his eyes glowing. "Maybe years, Sammy."

"Don't call me that." Sam's voice was so low it was barely audible, but the intensity, the threat it carried, caught Lucifer's attention.

"Oh, I know. That little pet name is property of your big brother, isn't it. It just seems a shame that no one gets to use it now that he's off the scene."

"He'll be back."

"Well of course he will, Sammy. He'll have to come back to ID the body, won't he? Or sign the committal papers. One of the two."

Sam leveled the remote at the old Toshiba and pushed the off button. Not that he expected it to work.

"You know what your problem is, Sam? You take everything too seriously. You've got to lighten up a little, learn to relax. Follow Dean's lead."

All you have to do is follow, flashed dismally in Sam's head. What the Dean-thing had coaxed him with. It seemed to be a theme night.

"My guess is he's either getting himself tanked or getting himself laid right now. Probably both."

Sam aimed at the TV again and started switching channels. Panels of blue light flickered across the room with each channel change, but every network seemed to be carrying the same broadcast. "Monday night TV really sucks," he said.

Lucifer leaned close to the camera again, his face filling the screen. "Be honest with me, Sam. There in the bathroom, you knew it was me all along, I know that. But even knowing it was me, when you plunged that knife into my chest, into Dean's chest, just for an instant, for a sliver of a second, killing Dean felt good, didn't it…" His lips spread further, baring teeth that looked chiseled and abnormally white. "Felt like you were finally in control. Finally standing the fuck up to him, didn't it. Oh wait—" His smile slipped and his eyes grew wide. "That was your plan for me, wasn't it!" Lucifer began cackling. "Hey, Sammy…" trying to catch his breath as his eyes teared with giggles, "How's that working out for you?" And he crowed with laughter.

It occurred to Sam that if he couldn't shut Lucifer up, he really would go crazy. (And the absurdity of that thought actually made him smile.)

Sam stood, crossed to the little TV set, grabbed its power cord and ripped it out of the wall, yanking it with such force that it dislodged the electrical outlet cover plate. Sparks flew from the exposed wires in the wall. The television blinked out, but so did all the electricity, all the lights, in the room. A shower of electrical sparks pinpricked the darkness from floor to ceiling, shimmering like glitter, as if every electrical circuit and device in the room had just been tasered. And then the lights began erratically flickering on and off.

"Oh crap," said Sam.

That's when the front door of his dingy hotel room exploded open. Dean managed to kick it open before charging inside, as if storming an enemy garrison, shotgun raised, locked and loaded, one hand steadying the short barrel, one on the trigger, ready for battle.

"SAM!" he shouted, a silhouette against the motel's neon-lit parking lot behind him.

"Dean?" Sam managed, and would have said more, might have uttered a sound of shock, but his brother began firing then.

Not at anything in particular, just firing. Blindly, randomly, crazily, into the strobe-lit darkness, as if he were trying to take out every blinking light.

"Where is he? Where is he?" Dean thundered.

"Dean, no—" Sam sputtered, feeling dazed (was this really happening?), "it's—"

Dean continued to point and shoot. A lamp exploded, a mirror hanging on the far wall shattered, woodchip and plaster sprayed from fresh holes in the walls. Sam ducked, yelling Dean's name, pleading with him to stop, but Dean seemed locked into attack mode, determined to kill something. The smell of lead dust clung to the air.

Sam skirted him, ducking with every shot, then launched himself at his brother and threw his arms around him in a tight hold, shouting, "Dean, stop, stop, stop!"

But Dean bucked against him, writhing in Sam's arms. "Sam? What the hell are you doing?" He only calmed when, with one last flicker, the lights settled and remained on.

Sam, however, was frantic. He abruptly released his brother and spun him around to face him. "What the hell are you doing? What is this? What's going on?"

Dean blinked at him, as if dazed.

Sam stared back, waited. But his brother seemed lost in a fog. He grabbed Dean by the shoulders and shook him roughly. "Dean?"

"I'm … helping you!"

"You're shooting up my room!"

Dean's eyes darted wildly around the room. "But—there's—"

"Nothing! There's nothing here, Dean! Nothing!"

Dean stared at him wide-eyed, clearly confused. "But you said…" he stammered, voice thin, suddenly uncertain, as he took a step back from him, "you said it was Lucifer. You said that in your text ..."

In the soft glow of the motel room's lighting, stable now, Sam was able to clearly see his brother for the first time. He cast a brief but assessing gaze over him from head to foot. He looked like he'd been in a terrible fight—and lost. His face was haggard, gaunt, his jacket was filthy, covered in some murky dark substance, and the shirt beneath was dirty, spattered with blood and torn in places. The stare in his eyes was beyond confused; it was the look of a wild, wounded animal that's been cornered. His brother looked feral.

Sam decided to change his tone. He slowed his words and spoke in a low, calming voice. "Yeah. That's what I said. But you know it isn't real. You've known that for a long time. You know that … Right?"

Dean didn't respond, didn't move. As if he didn't dare.

"Are you hurt?" Sam asked, hoping to sound casual, and hoping to look casual as he slipped behind Dean, grabbed the duffel bag that he'd dropped on the threshold, and closed the door. Dean didn't move, his wary gaze continually scanning the room.

"I'm fine."

Sam set his brother's duffel bag next to the closest twin bed, then glanced back at Dean. He raked a hand nervously through his hair. Maybe he was fine. Maybe this was just Dean being Dean, quick on the draw in the best of times, a little over the top when times were tense. Especially if he'd been drinking… but Sam didn't think so. Looking at him now, he seemed wired, overwrought, an undetonated bomb.

And he had a shotgun in his hand. Jesus…

"Let me have the gun," he said, a little more sharply than he intended.

"Why?" Dean recoiled slightly, defensively.

"Because I'm asking you for it." This time much more sharply than he intended. He glanced away, took a steadying breath, and tried again. "Just let me have it. It's okay…"

Dean was staring at him as if he'd gone mad.

"There's nothing here, Dean. It's safe, I promise."

"But the lights—"

"Electrical short. My fault. Nothing demonic." He reached for the shotgun and laid his hand carefully on the barrel, his eyes locked on Dean's. "Let it go?" It came out more as a question than a request.

Dean dipped his head in what looked like a nod and, very reluctantly, allowed Sam to take—or rather wrench—the gun from his grip.

Sam stepped back from him as he checked and cleared the rifle's magazine, a task that came so naturally to him he completed it without looking away from Dean, then laid it on the floor by the far wall. A lot of good bullets would have done in a demonic situation anyway. What was he thinking? Did he even realize what his weapon of choice was discharging? He regarded Dean evenly, still trying to judge his condition, unsure whether to be concerned or furious.

"What happened to you?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing chewed you up and spit you out? Because that's what you look like."

Dean's oddly charged stillness broke, and he began pacing. "Doesn't matter. I'm here."

Sam grunted. "Yeah? So?"

Dean stopped long enough to shoot a glare at Sam, his muscles twitching, his breathing ragged and uneven. Through gritted teeth he said, "So you said you needed help, I'm here to help," and went back to pacing.

Sam made a deliberate effort to keep his voice steady. "I didn't say that. I said I was okay."

"Yeah, you were lying," said Dean with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Where have you been?"

Dean stopped pacing again. "What?"

Sam slowly approached him now, closing the distance between them until they were just a foot or so apart. He wasn't sure why, but furious was winning out. "For the past five days. Where have you been?"

Anger flared in Dean's eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched into a sneer. He faced Sam squarely, closing the distance to inches now. "Where have I been?"

"Yeah, where have you been?"

"I've been hunting the monster that killed Bobby! Remember Bobby?"

They glared at each other, inches apart, Sam's own temper roiling within him, coursing through his body with such venom that every part of him seemed to tremble. He wanted to hit him. He wanted to shout him down. But instead he forced himself to see his brother's contorted face, the dark shadows under his eyes, his half-crazed disposition, and he reigned the venom in. He dragged in a deep, jagged breath, and took a step back, needing to create space.

He had nearly lost it. And it occurred to him then, not without amusement, that Dean had managed in five minutes what Lucifer had been trying to do for nearly a week. He looked at Dean—who looked dangerously pissed off—and almost smiled. Quietly he said, "Just … tell me what happened. Okay?"

He immediately began pacing again, fast, back and forth, almost manically, eyes blazing. "Nothing happened. I lost him—it. I had it in my sights, I was so close, Sammy, so close I could smell the black shit that oozes through its veins and then I ... somehow I … lost it." With a swing of his arm he toppled a bedside end table. The items on top—a lamp, the TV remote, Sam's beer—crashed to the floor. Dean marched past it without losing a beat. "Sonofabitch was just … gone! Vanished! It was right there and then …"

"Okay," Sam said, calmingly, concern taking hold now. "Okay, yeah, I get it."

Dean was searching the room now, in that same manic way. "I need a drink."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, "actually might not be a bad idea." He was about to point him to the Jack Daniels in the cupboard but Dean was already tearing through cupboards and throwing open doors in the small kitchenette. When the bottle appeared he snatched it, along with a used glass sitting in the sink to be washed, and poured several shots into it. Sam moved up gingerly beside him, watching as he knocked back all the shots at once. Then poured another.

"It had help, Sammy," he continued, as if there'd been no interruption, "it had to have outside help, there's no way it could have gotten past me the way it did unless there was someone, something, watching every move I made, waiting for me to … to …"

"Dean?"

"… look the other way, or … And that's when I checked my phone, and I read your message, and it sounded like you were … like maybe you were …"

"Dean …"

" … maybe you were …" He gulped back the contents of the glass.

"When's the last time you slept?"

Dean rounded on him. "What?"

Slowly, carefully, Sam asked again, "When was the last time that you slept?"

Dean's eyes flashed with renewed rage. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Oh, I'm listening."

Veins throbbed visibly on Dean's neck as he locked his jaw. "You know, I've been a little busy, Sam," he growled. "Naps haven't been a priority." He tried to move past Sam, but Sam blocked him.

"Can you just answer me?" Sam kept his voice deliberately calm, even.

Dean slammed the glass down on the kitchenette counter, hard enough to dent the cheap linoleum. "What the hell's your problem?" he snarled, his own voice dark, threatening, and steadily rising. "What exactly do you want from me? You asked for my help—"

"—No I didn't—"

"—and I raced to your rescue one more time—"

"My rescue?"

"—because Sammy can't seem to handle the scary stuff by himself, so here I am, yet again, when where I should be, where I need to be, is back where I was, taking care of business, killing things! Do you still remember how to do that, Sam, or are you too busy playing house with your imaginary friend?"

Sam gaped at him, drop-jawed, both stunned and seething, ready once again to deck his brother.

And once again, he pulled back. With a great deal more effort this time. Every muscle in his body taut and shaking, as if tethered by a tight line of control, Sam quietly said, "No. You're not pushing me down that rabbit hole. I know what you're doing—you goad me, shift the focus off you, we end up throwing a few punches, which is probably what you want—"

"Why would I want that?"

"Why would you shoot up my room?"

"To help you!"

"By attacking me?"

"You think I want to fight you?"

"I think you're unraveling, Dean!" And that was it. That was Sam's tether snapping. His shout thundered over Dean's. He'd forgotten just how explosive, how intimidating, his own rage could sound when vented without warning.

And with his focus fixed on Dean, he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. His brother reacted as if he had been decked. He stumbled backward into the half-size fridge, looking confused, almost frightened. Sam didn't dare speak, because if he spoke, he would take it back, he would apologize, and as much as he wanted to do that, he knew that he couldn't. He couldn't allow himself to defer to his big brother this time, to placate him. His big brother didn't need to be comforted. He needed to be stopped.

Sam just wasn't sure he was the person for the job.

And so silence stretched uncomfortably, until it was finally broken by Dean's uncharacteristically timid voice. "You think I'm crazy?" he asked. Then, recalibrating slightly, but just as timidly: "You … think I'm crazy?"

"Well, I've always thought that," Sam replied. Trying for levity.

But Dean was deadly serious. "Then, what, I'm—burnt out? Can't do the job?"

"The job? This isn't about th—"

"What then?"

Sam inhaled a deep breath and slowly released it. He seemed to be doing lots of deep breathing since his brother's arrival. And then he set his gaze gently on him. Dean was waiting, patiently, maybe fearfully of the answer. He looked desperately tired. Sam worried that what he said next might be more than he could handle right now, more than he could hear. But it had to be said. He chose his words carefully, measuring them out slowly, his eyes never leaving his brother's. "I think the last six months have taken a heavier toll on you than I've wanted to see. I think we've suffered too many hits … too many losses … Both of us. And I'm not saying I'm great at it, or that I've got anything figured out, but I've at least been trying to deal with it."

"And I don't?" Dean was glowering at him. Timidity gone, anger back. It was a switch of stunning speed.

"You mean drowning yourself in Johnny Walker and revenge fantasies?"

"Been great catching up. I'm outta here."

He was heading for the door as Sam caught his arm. "No, you're not."

"Get off me!" Dean shouted, wrenching free with a force that shoved Sam backward. As he reached for the door—apparently ditching the bag and the weapon he brought with him—Sam regained his footing and lunged at him, knocking them both off-balance and sideways against the dining table. It might have turned into the full-on fight that Sam had been trying to avoid, if not for Dean's exhaustion and frayed mind-state. He was simply too wrecked to fight effectively. He managed to throw a miscalculated punch or two, but Sam easily ducked them and landed in front of the door, back pressed firmly against it, completely blocking Dean's exit. Dean hovered in front of him now, sweaty and out of breath, eyes darting wildly to either side of Sam as if to find a crack he might slip through.

"I can't let you leave, Dean," Sam said.

"There's nothing wrong with me," his brother protested raggedly.

"Then you'll have no problem holing up here, ordering some take-out, getting some rest. Because that's what we do after a hunt. Right?" It seemed like perfect reasoning to Sam.

Dean turned away, perhaps realizing he'd lost this one. He was visibly struggling now. A shaky hand went to his forehead, rubbing at both temples. His chest rose and fell in heavy, erratic breaths. And he couldn't seem to stand still, as if some frenetically charged energy were rippling through his body, causing odd little jerks from his limbs, keeping him wired even in his exhaustion, refusing him rest. As Sam watched him with steadily mounting concern, it occurred to him that he'd never seen his brother look so close to complete breakdown.

"Take it easy, Dean," he soothed, edging closer as he spoke. "Everything's okay. Really. We're on the same side, remember? Just … breathe. Alright?" He once again had the impression that he was cornering a wounded animal that might just as easily rip his face off as yield to his coaxing.

Not that it mattered. This was Dean. He would do whatever it took.

He realized then that Dean was trying to follow his suggestion, he was struggling to take a deep breath, and not quite managing it.

"It's okay," Sam said.

"Stop saying that. Nothing's okay."

"Dean—"

"Hasn't been since…" He stopped, huffed a humorless laugh. "Oh that's right. It's never been." He dragged a hand over his face. "I don't think I even know what okay is. But what I do know, Sammy?" He looked up at Sam, imploringly. "What I do know is I need to get back out there. I need to get back to work. Because they're waiting … Monsters aren't gonna gank themselves, are they?"

A weird little smile quirked across his lips as he started pacing again. "And I've got the mother of them all to kill, don't I. Evilest motherfucker in the land. The one that took Bobby away from us…" His smile faltered. "…the one that took Cas…" His voice fell. "…and wrecked my car…" He looked away from Sam. "…and took everything that I…" His voice broke there, breath hitching, and he stood still.

"That you what?" Sam asked gently.

Dean lowered his head. Sam could see that he was shaking, that he was desperately trying to hold himself together, and hold back the torrent of emotion that was clearly more terrifying to him than any of the monsters they hunted had ever been. For God's sake, Sam thought, just let go.

"Don't stop," he said instead in a small plea.

"You need to get out of my way." Dean looked up at him now, his expression darkening, all traces of vulnerability swept aside. "Before I hurt you."

Sam smiled at him affectionately. "You won't hurt me."

Dean smiled back, but without affection, and without humor. "Well, I'm unraveling. I might do anything."

"I'll take my chances."

"Why won't you let me go?" Dean exploded.

Sam regarded him evenly, and was surprised at how calm, how utterly un-reactive he felt. Only a few minutes ago he'd wanted to throttle his brother. But it wasn't the same lack of response, suppression of feeling, he'd been aware of in his interactions with his Lucifer phantasm. This was much different. Completely opposite. This was a depth and richness of feeling he'd been cutting himself off from for too long, this was the connection between him and Dean that had carried him through the roughest times of his life, that allowed him a clarity of thought and a quieting of fear, a kind of grace, and he'd forgotten just how powerful it could be. Looking at his brother now, wanting nothing more than to help him and somehow believing he'd figure out how, he held on tight to that grace.

He said simply, "Because you're a trainwreck, you moron. And I'm your brother."

Dean considered the response. Nodded. Then he swept an arm across the kitchenette counter and smashed everything resting on it to the floor. A plastic plate, a glass, a cheap-looking vase holding a fake daisy, and the whiskey bottle respectively clattered, chipped, broke and shattered against the hard tiles. Dean moved next to the dining table, grabbed it from the underside and vehemently overturned it. Sam winced as he watched his laptop crash to the floor beneath a clutter of newspapers, his notebook journal, an assortment of pens, and yet another glass.

Dean slumped into stillness then, leaning against the counter, head down, arms wrapped around himself as if to control the shaking, out of breath again, and somehow looking even more depleted than before. Sam took another small stab at levity. "Something I said?"

No response from Dean.

"You know," Sam said, easily, casually, "between you shooting up the walls and trashing the furniture, it's a good thing this place is such a dive and the manager's such a drunk, or there'd be cops banging down our door by now. How are you doing, Dean?"

"I'm just … peachy," his brother mumbled, without looking up.

"Yeah." Sam found himself wondering what was so terrible about taking a night off from the hunt, about being here in this room, that Dean was so desperate to escape. But of course it wasn't about the hunt—Dean surely knew he was at the point of collapse—and it wasn't the room—it was just another featureless room, offering nothing more nefarious than a roof and two beds (and a TV set that talked to him, all Lucifer, all the time …).

Oh. That could be it. Maybe it wasn't that Dean couldn't allow himself to rest, it was that he couldn't do it here. With Sam. In Crazytown. Where the lunatics were running the asylum.

Sam's grace canted slightly.

He drifted over to his brother, once again closing the space between them, and lightly touched his shoulder.

Dean flinched. A reasonable response when one of the inmates makes a grab for you, Sam thought.

"It's okay, just me …" he said, quashing the thought. "Sit down for a minute? Please?"

Dean shot him a helpless glare, then redirected the glare at the nearest bed. After a moment of consideration he reluctantly shuffled over to it. He didn't so much sit as collapse onto it, slumping, head down, elbows propped on his knees, one leg juddering anxiously—but just at the edge, as if to assert this as only a temporary measure. Sam sat across from him on the adjacent bed.

"You know, I was doing alright with the whole Lucifer thing. I was handling it. And then we lost Bobby …" Dean tentatively glanced up at him now, the judder subsiding. "I think Bobby was my breaking point. He was the first loss that felt like … like part of me died too. The part that cared enough to keep fighting, keep hunting. When he died I just …" Sam shrugged, "stopped being that person. And started going through the motions of being that person. Pretending like what we do matters, without ever feeling it. It's amazing how long a hunter can go on like that, and manage to stay alive, you know?" Sam met his brother's eyes now, met the profound sadness there, and the fear just beneath it. Not for himself, Sam knew; it was the fear of losing his little brother.

"So as of tonight," he said slowly as the idea formed, hearing the truth of his words even as they took shape into a resolution, "as of right now, I'm done with it."

Dean watched him fully now, emotion flooding his eyes as fear intensified into dread. "Done with … what?"

Sam could see that Dean didn't understand, and it seemed more important than ever to make himself clear. He leaned closer, feeling the urgency of his words as they spilled out. "I'm done pretending, Dean. I'm not going to spend the rest of my life, however brief it might be, as this empty freakin' shell who just passively goes through the motions. I have to find my way back. We both do. And I'll eventually get there, I know I will, but I think I'm gonna need your help."

He searched Dean's eyes, looking for any opening, any chink, in the dead-bolted, mine-laden blockade of his brother's defense structure. "And I know you need mine."

Dean scoffed lightly and glanced away, blinking back tears.

"The thing is, what we do does matter. And no one's better at it than you and me. That's why we've got to get our shit together, Dean. We're the front line, and we're indispensable. No one knew that better than Bobby."

Dean stared at the floor. Quietly he said, "We both miss him."

Sam watched him, weighing his thoughts, gauging the moment. "He wasn't your breaking point though, was he. Yours was further back."

"I never broke, Sam."

"Yours was Cas."

Dean's head snapped up. He fired a stunned, daggered look at Sam as if he'd just been physically struck by him, his expression a mix of contempt, disgust, and … something that made no sense to Sam. Something like shame.

Softly, but determined, Sam continued. "And you have to talk about it."

"Oh, is it my turn to share now?" Dean spat with bristling sarcasm. He started to rise then, but Sam seized his wrist and roughly pulled him back down. Dean seemed too taken off guard to react.

"Been your turn a long time now, bro. How many times over the last year alone have I begged you to talk to me? About as many times as you've blown me off, ya think?"

Dean tried to pull away, but Sam tightened his grip and leaned even closer.

"Whatever it is that's ripping you to shreds—grief, guilt, rage, knowing you, probably the combo platter—whatever it is, it's time you face it. You're not alone here. I'm right here beside you, and you are not shutting me out this time. I won't let you."

And he abruptly released Dean's wrist.

Dean stared back at him silently, looking utterly trapped now. And frightened of his brother. (And it literally made Sam's heart ache, but he couldn't let his resolve weaken now.) His brow was furrowed by uncertainty, by questions competing for his voice, until one finally won out.

"What the hell happened to you while I was gone, Sam?"

"I got my priorities in order. Don't change the subject."

In a tone taut with exasperation, Dean asked, "But why are you doing this?"

It was Sam's turn to be caught off guard. He simply stared back at Dean for a long moment. It had to be the craziest thing Sam had heard today. And Sam had heard a lot of crazy things. "Seriously?"

He tried to smile, and found his vision rippling with tears. He struggled for the right words as he spoke, and as emotion threatened to derail them.

"I'm looking at you right now, Dean … and I don't know where the hell you are. I haven't really since … well, since Cas. But lately it's gone way beyond that, and I don't … All I know is that you're not here. And it …" He felt the muscles in his jaw clench. Historically the end to that sentence had always been scares me. But it didn't fit this time.

Dean's attention was fixed on him with fierce intensity. He was really listening. Sam didn't know when he'd have another moment like this.

"It pisses me off. You know? I won't lose you too. Not you. So what I'm saying is, Dean, you either let me help you find your way back, or I swear to God, I'll claw my way into your head and I'll fucking drag you back."

He wiped a hand across his face to clear the tears and waited for his brother's response. Dean was still watching him, visibly shaken by what Sam had said, but perhaps even more by the fierceness and determination he said it with. And while he seemed calmer now, and maybe it was just the calm before the storm, Sam could see he was brimming with emotions he clearly couldn't manage.

It was with enormous effort that Dean finally spoke, hesitant and stammering and lost in sorrow. "S-Sammy, I … you know I'll do anything for you, right?"

Sam winced slightly at the choice of phrase, the memory of its last use far too fresh.

"… But I … some things I …" He looked down at his feet. Such innocuous words, and every one seemed torture to him. "… can't … just … talk about…"

Sam was watching his brother drown. It was as if the sheer weight of undisclosed, unacknowledged feelings had wrapped around his ankles and was dragging him under. And it was all Sam could do to keep from throwing him a line. Telling him it was okay, he didn't have to do this, he didn't have to talk about anything … Hell, he didn't even have to be here, he could go on back to his hunt, back to the job he was on, and they could shove this under the nearest rug and forget all of it ever happened, just another uncomfortable memory they never had to talk about, and the Winchesters were damn good at that, they could just go back to cold, crippling silence, maybe make the distance between them insurmountable this time.

Sam wouldn't be throwing his brother a line.

"I'm just asking you to try."

"I'm not like you."

"You can do this."

"I can't."

"You can."

"Please, Sam—"

"Just try."

"Not now—please—not now, Sammy—" The cracks in what little remained of Dean's composure were fanning out and multiplying, like a pane of fractured glass about to shatter. Sam thought of the risk he'd taken in confronting his own hallucinations, his own breach of sanity, and he knew he was taking the same risk now, except it was by force this time. It was an unplanned intervention, and it was against Dean's will. And maybe this wasn't right. Maybe it was even dangerous. Maybe he should pull back …

"Why not now?" he pushed.

"Because I can't! You've got too much to deal with! You've got problems of your own! And I—I came here to help you—"

"We've been over that—"

"No!" He leapt to his feet. "No, you don't get it! I don't know how to help you! But what I won't do—I can't risk—in front of you—Sam—I can't …" Fissures chasing and interlacing with each other, the surface buckling. "… unravel …"

It was as if the word itself, his brother's word, said now with such vehemence and utter self-loathing, drained the last of his emotional resources, the last of whatever strength he had left. He collapsed back onto the bed, head down, eyes shut against the world, tears overwhelming his defenses. But instead of breaking down, he was shutting down. Sam had seen it countless times before, just never quite as dramatically as now. In a low, graveled pitch, barely above a whisper that Sam strained to hear, he said, "I can't fall apart, can't do that to you, can't do that to you I can't I can't …"

And there it was. The reason Dean had launched an all-out, no-holds-barred offensive against his brother in order to get away from him tonight. "That's what this is about? You're afraid of …"

It was so obvious now that Sam felt blind for not seeing it himself. It should have been a no-brainer. Dean's enshrined duty to protect and put first his little brother's wellbeing meant he'd fight hell and high water to prevent him witnessing the detonation of his own. Especially now, when Sam was so … frail, he thought. Even if Dean didn't realize the full extent of his little brother's recent spiral into psychosis, that must be how he viewed him. Hell, less than an hour ago, it was how Sam viewed himself.

"Dean, look at me," he gently urged, putting a hand on his brother's forearm. "C'mon, man. Look up. Look at me." Dean peered up at him hesitantly, squinting slightly, as if looking into a bright light. "All I care about is that you talk to me. That you let me in. If you happen to fall apart in the process, you know what? Not a big deal. Falling apart's been my job for the last five days, I'm happy to let you have it for a while. It's really okay with me. And you know what? Whatever happens, I'll be here. Right by your side. We'll put you back together. Deal?"

For a while there was no reply. Dean just stared him, frowning, puzzling over Sam's words. He seemed to be having trouble absorbing them. Sam tilted his head slightly, raised his eyebrows, expectantly.

Dean finally managed to stammer, "Last five days …? You? F-falling … Sammy, wh…?"

Sam realized dismally that all his brother had heard there was falling apart's been my job, and that innate need to protect Sam, which served as one of his best defense mechanisms, was vaulting into place.

"No, no. No. Don't you do that. This is not about me. Don't make this about me."

"What happened here?"

"Dean—"

"Just tell me what's going on with you," Dean ordered, sounding more himself than he had since he'd bashed Sam's door in. The mechanism already shifting into overdrive.

Sam sat back slightly, folded his arms over his chest. "You first."

It was a small wrench thrown into the mechanism, but a wrench nonetheless. And it probably only worked because, in recent weeks, both of them had become used to Sam's easy compliance, his aversion to confrontation. Especially with his brother. It had become the norm. And under different circumstances—that is, circumstances in which Dean were not the target of his brother's newfound confidence-turned-tough-love tactics—Sam knew his brother would have applauded the change.

But now, here tonight, Dean looked lost again. "Sam, I … I told you … I … I can hardly think straight right now, let alone dredge up …" His head dropped and he pleaded, "Don't make me do this now."

"Dean, all I'm asking—"

And then he looked up sharply. "Ask me for something else. Anything else."

Sam didn't have a chance to respond before Dean launched swiftly, and more than a little desperately, into his explanation. "You want me to stay? I'll stay. Want to order food, we'll have dinner. I'll clean up the mess I made, I'll sweep up the glass, I'll dig bullets out of the freakin' walls, I'll—"

"You'll do anything I ask."

Silence stretched uneasily for a moment, as Sam actually considered the offer, and as Dean realized that he might be able to negotiate his way out of what felt to him like an impossible situation. There was relief in his voice, and utter sincerity, as he confirmed, "Anything."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Sam pinned him with his gaze. "You promise."

Dean met the gaze with painful honesty. "If it helps you. Yes."

Sam sighed. He knew it was a compromise, and it clashed with the part of him that wanted to hold firm, stay strong for his brother even as it tore him apart. But there were other considerations here. Maybe other ways through this. And maybe now, as Dean kept plaintively insisting, really wasn't the best time to start peeling back the latest layers of his brother's damage.

There was always tomorrow.

Sam stood to his feet and placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Okay. Well, there is one thing. And it will help me."

And then he reached under his own bed and pulled out a weather-beaten canvas knapsack, his own. He carried it with him to the kitchen, carefully stepping over shards of glass and thick puddles of Jack Daniels, and began rifling through its contents on the counter. He deliberately kept his back to Dean as he retrieved what he'd been searching for, then pulled the last unbroken glass from a cupboard and filled it with water from the tap. He could feel Dean's eyes boring into his back as he waited, and figured he was already regretting the promise.

Sam returned to their adjacent beds and sat back down with the glass of water and a small prescription-labeled vial of pills in his hands. He pushed the glass into Dean's hand, then untwisted the child-proof cap and tipped two small white capsules into his own hand. He looked up into Dean's wide eyes and extended his hand to him.

"I want you to take these."

Dean bristled. "What are they?"

Sam considered candor for an instant; then, remembering an exchange between them from long ago, changed his mind. "Effective," he said, as Dean had said then to him.

Dean looked alarmed now. He set the water on the floor at his feet. "Forget it."

"You just promised me, Dean."

"You're not drugging me, Sam."

"Okay, here's the thing," Sam said, enjoying the feeling of quiet determination that had somehow been reawakened in him tonight. "You're clearly in no shape to make a rational decision for yourself right now, so I'm narrowing the choices down for you. You're either gonna talk to me, or you're gonna sleep. Your choice."

Dean was halfway to his feet when Sam clamped a heavy hand to his shoulder and pushed him back down. "What you're not going to do is leave, I thought we already covered that. So help me, Dean, you make another move, I'll cuff you to the bed."

"You wouldn't dare."

"You wanna try me?"

Dean stared at him first with bewilderment, as if struggling to figure out who he was exactly, then with wide-eyed panic. Then he shot a desperate look out the nearest window, where the glow of a streetlight glinted off the chrome bumper of his rental.

"You won't make it as far as the door."

An odd little whinnying noise escaped Dean's throat. "You know I hate taking drugs," he whined.

"Which is why I made you promise first."

"Jesus, Sam," sighed Dean, shifting into a different tact. "What the hell? I mean, what the hell happened to you?"

"I already told you." Dean was stalling. He knew that. He wouldn't let it last long.

"Priorities in order, right. And that's supposed to make sense? I mean, c'mon, since when haven't we been each other's first priority?"

The question sent all of Sam's thoughts skidding to a halt. It stirred a sudden ache of emptiness deep in his gut, a physical sensation, hollow and unsettled. And there was a lump in his throat that he swallowed back. "For quite a while now. I think you know that."

Dean looked down, and Sam looked away.

Neither of them spoke for what seemed a very long time. Sam found himself wishing, for the second time that night, that he hadn't said what he'd just said. However true it may have been, it had sounded to his ears unintentionally harsh, even accusatory, and he wanted very much to take that part of it back. But the words kept sinking into that hollow emptiness inside of him. And when he eventually looked back at Dean, he knew it was too late anyway.

Dean was in his own very dark place. He was staring ahead into vacant space, his eyes were filled with tears and his face looked ashen. His lower lip trembled. He looked exposed. Like he'd just been found guilty of some horrible crime. When he spoke, his voice carried both the resignation and the self-reproach of a confession. "I haven't known how to help you," he said very softly. "I'm losing you more every day, and … there's not a damn thing I can do."

And then he looked down again, his eyes shutting against the tears. Almost inaudibly he added, "And it's killing me."

Sam desperately wanted to say the right thing, but he wasn't sure what it was. So he said the one thing he was certain of right then. "I know it is."

And he rested his hand on Dean's hunched shoulder, felt the light vibration of the tears his brother couldn't contain now. He expected Dean to shrug the hand away, but he didn't.

After awhile, after he'd regained control, he cleared his throat, shook his head a little, and said gruffly, in a far more confident pitch, "Good. So maybe … maybe you'll let me be useful. Let me get the hell outta here."

Sam laughed in disbelief.

"I'm no use here, Sam, but out there—"

"You just don't quit, do you!"

"Pot and kettle, Sam," Dean growled. "You're like a pitbull with a bone!"

"You're in way over your head with the metaphors there, dude. And you're stalling. Make a choice."

"Oh, c'mon, you're still on this? You've got to be kidding me."

"I'm deadly serious."

Dean wore the expression of a sullen, defiant teenager. "But I've been talking to you!"

"And you get points for effort." Sam was enjoying this again.

"… And?"

"And it's a good start. I'm proud of you."

"A start?" If looks could kill, Sam knew he would be a steaming rubble heap in Dean's glare.

"Yeah, Dean. A start. But we've got all night. Is that your choice?"

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!"

"Still deadly serious," Sam said, suppressing a grin. The capsules felt warm and a little sticky in his palm, but they were still intact.

The look Dean gave him now was a combination of abject exasperation and utter exhaustion. He'd actually expected Sam to thank him for the chat and send him on his way. Sam would have found it funny if his brother didn't look so genuinely broken.

"C'mon, Sammy, don't make me do this, I'm just too fucking …" He trailed off, either unable—or suddenly unwilling—to finish the sentence.

"…tired? I'm not surprised. You need to sleep, Dean."

Dean groaned.

"But it's entirely your call." He opened his hand to Dean again.

"You're unbelievable," Dean grumbled miserably. "You're seriously gonna roofie me because I won't cry on your shoulder? I should have known it would eventually come to this…"

"You should have known not to make me a promise you didn't intend to keep."

Dean glowered at him, stung, and unable to escape the brutal logic of the retort. It was a good one, Sam knew. He would congratulate himself later on it.

Dean's gaze dropped bitterly to the capsules in Sam's hand, and Sam could see his mind working, pondering, plotting. After a long pause, he sighed. Reluctantly, he retrieved the glass of water still sitting by his feet.

"Fine," he said, and he reached for the pills.

"Wait," said Sam, and he snatched them back. And Dean looked on helplessly and with smoldering indignation as his little brother carefully pulled open each capsule and released its powdery contents into Dean's glass.

"Just want to make sure they go down. It's not that I don't trust you …" He took the glass from Dean's hand and gave it a little swirl, making sure the powder was well dissolved. "Well no. Actually it is." And he offered the glass back to him.

Dean just stared at him, seething, and not taking the glass.

"Drink up, Dean," Sam said gently.

"This is so stupid."

"Drink up."

"It's not like I'm—"

"Dean."

Dean snatched the water, knocked it back, then hurled the empty glass violently toward the kitchenette counter, where it shattered and fell amongst all the other shattered things.

Sam blew out a small breath. "Thank you."

"I hate you."

"I feel it."

And then it was like a Mexican standoff. They just stared at each other, waiting for the other to speak or to move first. It was Sam who finally gave in. "You know that was our last glass, right?"

"Bite me."

x

x

Dean was still staring at him as he dug through the cabinet beneath the sink looking for tools to clear up the mess with. His back was to him most of the time, but he could feel his eyes on him.

He spotted a plastic yellow dustpan and a matching whisk broom, grabbed them, and began sweeping up the glass. The dustpan was small and flimsy, and there was glass everywhere, and of course Dean wasn't lifting a finger to help, so it was slow-going. But Sam didn't mind. He was grateful to have something to occupy his attention.

As he shifted his weight onto his other knee, he was able to steal a quick glance at his brother and noticed that Dean wasn't just staring at him, he was studying him, puzzling him out. His eyes were heavy-lidded and it was hard to see them, but there was definite curiosity there, and something that looked a little like … pride?

Sam inadvertently frowned. And Dean would have seen that too, so he re-focused on the slivers of glass that sparkled on the floor and tried to conceal his thoughts. He was pretty sure that was a look of pride though. Almost a kind of reverence.

"Are you gonna tell me what happened here while I was gone?" Dean asked then.

Sam stopped long enough to look at him, then went back to searching for stray shards. "Yes. I will."

Dean was waiting.

Sam stopped again, annoyed. "Well, not now. Besides—little busy here? 'Course maybe if I had a little help…" He deliberately paused there, gesturing to the broom in one hand, dustpan in the other. Dean wasn't taking the hint. Sam sighed. "We'll talk about it tomorrow."

"Yeah, about that …" Dean finally looked away. For the first time that night, his voice was calm, even, and Sam wondered if the sedative was already having an effect. "You know, I do still have a job to get back to. Before Frank's lead dries up. I could, uh … use your help with it." He shrugged. "I mean, if you want to come."

Sam grabbed a sponge from behind a low cupboard door, and glanced at Dean. He looked nervous, almost shy. Like he'd just asked him on a date. It had been almost a month since the last job they'd worked together, and that one had been tense with Sam's insecurities and Dean's overprotectiveness. There'd been mistakes, delays, stops and starts. After that one, Sam stuck to research and Dean went off for the kills on his own.

Sam began mopping up a pool of Jack Daniels from the floor, with deliberately exaggerated forcefulness. "I think it's fair to say we work best together."

"Yeah. We do."

Hints for help with any kind of non-hunt-related work were all but lost on Dean. Sam scoffed and struggled to his feet with the whiskey-sopped sponge.

"What?" Dean snapped. "I'm agreeing with you."

But Sam's irritation was just an affectation. He hadn't missed the look of relief, of satisfaction, on Dean's face when they had decided, in effect, to start working together again, and that look filled Sam with a sense of hopefulness that he hadn't felt in a very long time.

Unfortunately, it was shortlived.

It was as if Dean had remembered that he was still pissed off, and that he needed to reassert his control. Everything about him seemed to darken. "Something you should know though, just so we're clear. I've been here too long as it is. I'm not waiting around. As soon as it's light out, I'm outta here. Or …" He rolled his eyes. "As soon as I'm awake. Whichever comes first. Come with me or not, but you're not stopping me. You got it?"

"I hear you." Sam dumped the last of the glass into a large trashbag.

"Yeah?"

"Loud and clear."

"Good." And then grimly, "So, Nurse Ratched. Do I have time for a shower before I, you know, keel over?"

"If you make it quick."

Sam watched him struggle to his feet, catching himself as he swayed slightly, then reach for his duffel bag.

"There's something you should know too, Dean. Just so we're clear." He twisted the top of the bag into a knot and dropped into the trashcan. "I'll be calling the shots for awhile."

Dean stopped what he was doing, turned to Sam. They faced each other now, squaring off. With a derisive little laugh and a raised eyebrow, Dean said, "Excuse me?"

"It's the only way I can help you. Which I intend to do, even if you fight me every step of the way."

"I'm not fighting you …" Equal measures threatened and threatening.

"Dean, you haven't stopped fighting me since you walked through—bashed through—my door."

"Fine." And he held up both hands, a show of surrender. "As of right now, I'm done. No more fighting. Done. We good?"

"We're great. But I'm still in charge. And you're not going anywhere tomorrow."

"Sam—"

"You need serious rest, and you and I have a lot to talk about." His tone had taken on that quiet, determined, unflappable intensity again, and while Dean could hold his own in any shouting match, Sam sensed it was his calm more than anything that blew Dean's fuses.

"You've already drugged me, and we've been talking! What the hell more do you want from me, Sam?"

Sam glanced at his watch. "Wow. Eleven seconds. That cease-fire lasted a lot longer than I thought it would."

"Hey, Sammy, been meaning to ask, how're the hallucinations going? Any good ones lately?"

"And now we're pulling out the big guns."

"I won't let you do this," Dean said, but he sounded weary and unconvinced.

"You won't have much choice."

"Meaning what?"

Sam took a step closer, and Dean took a step back. Sam groaned softly, and sighed. Gently and slowly, he said, "Well, put it this way, Dean. If things here were reversed, and it was me having the core meltdown right now, is there anything you wouldn't do to help me? Any lengths you wouldn't go to, any underhanded tactic or dirty trick you wouldn't play, to ensure my safety?" He smiled at his brother. "I've learned from the best, you know."

He got ready to deflect the next protest, block the next verbal (or otherwise) punch, but neither came. The blustery anger and edginess softened into resignation, which didn't surprise him too much, because Dean didn't look like he'd be able to stand much longer, let alone continue arguing. What did surprise him was a flash of what he'd seen earlier in Dean's expression. A hint of admiration, respect, as if beneath the resignation he were quietly impressed.

A grim little sneer tipped his lips. "I'm gonna wake up cuffed to the bed, aren't I."

"Clean towels are on the rack. You better hurry."

Sam started to turn away. "Oh and uh …" He steeled himself. "Those pills need to stay down, Dean."

"Yeah?" came the guarded response. "So?"

"So, keep the door open."

He moved away quickly then, deliberately, and began righting toppled furniture in the room, starting with the dining table, and retrieving the many objects that lay scattered on the floor beneath it, leaving Dean to stare dazedly at him, too stunned to speak. Too seething with rage, Sam guessed, and focused on the task at hand, as he'd done earlier that evening with Lucifer in his face. He thought Lucifer might be preferable. All was very quiet until he heard Dean begin to softly chuckle. Maybe the sedative kicking in, Sam thought, making him a little loopy. Sam glanced over his shoulder at him. Dean had his hand over his eyes, propping his head, as he giggled to himself, his whole upper body shaking. When the laughter subsided, the hand fell away and he looked over at Sam. His expression darkened at once, falling serious again, and he started to say something, but dissolved into quiet, weary laughter again, trailing it behind him as he finally moved off into the bathroom, banging the door loudly and deliberately against the wall behind it to show that it was open. When the shower went on, Sam could still hear his brother's muffled laughter beneath the water. It didn't sound hollow or hysterical or angry. It sounded warm. It sounded like his brother was genuinely amused.

It made Sam smile.

x

x

Sam was sitting at the table when the shower was shut off, checking on the state of his bruised laptop. He clicked on the web server to check that he could still access the internet, and was relieved when it opened. He checked his emails, scanned through them, then clicked on the news. Everything seemed to be working. Dean shambled out about then, in sweats and a clean t-shirt, looking visibly affected by the sedative now. His whole face seemed to droop, and he moved in a slow, tilting stagger.

Sam cast him a furtive sideways glance as he shuffled past, one hand sliding along the table to correct his odd cant. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been drugged," Dean grumbled. "Weird, huh?"

Sam shifted his attention back to the computer and the Huffington Post news. Dean tossed his dirty clothes onto the floor in a heap, and then just stood there, frowning, looking uneasy.

"You know, uh ... I'm all for kink, Sammy, but, uh …" He took an unsteady breath and closed his eyes. "I really don't want to wake up cuffed to the bed. Okay?"

He opened his eyes and ventured a glance over at Sam. Who ignored him.

"I mean, I won't … you don't have to … I'll stay. You're in charge, Oh Captain My Captain. Okay? So can we … agree on that?"

Sam continued ignoring him. He was thoroughly enjoying Dean's discomfort, and he suspected Dean could see it. Dean rolled his eyes, snorted an annoyed huff, and gave up. He crossed to his bed.

"Hey, did you notice there's a knife stuck in your bathroom wall?"

Sam winced. He hoped it was imperceptibly, but he suspected Dean saw that too. Even in his doped-up exhaustion, his brother was reading him like a book, he could feel it, could feel him searching through the pages now. How could he have forgotten about the knife?

"I'd complain to housekeeping if I were you."

Sam read the news and said nothing. But he watched Dean in his peripheral vision. Watched him shift into a deeper gear of annoyance, looking restless, bored, and fighting hard against the effects of the drug. But at least he wasn't pacing in that crazy erratic way anymore, he wasn't bouncing off the walls with that weird nervous energy, and he was breathing normally. Care of the pharmaceutical industry, he thought.

Dean settled on his bed with his back against the headboard and reached for the TV remote control that sat on the bedside table.

Sam leapt so quickly out of his chair that he nearly overturned it. "What are you doing? Don't do that."

"Why?"

"It doesn't—doesn't work."

Dean glanced across the room at the TV, then back at Sam. Wide-eyed and as if speaking to a child, he asked, "Have you tried plugging it in?"

"Funny. It doesn't work." And he snatched the remote from Dean's hand and pitched it missile-style toward the kitchen, where it bounced off the trashcan lid and clattered to the floor.

Dean frowned at the trashcan, then leveled his attention on Sam. And studied.

"Okay. That's it," Sam flared, and snapped off Dean's bedside light. "You need to stop fighting the sedative, Dean. And go to sleep." He crossed to the dining table and pushed his laptop closed. "We have a lot to talk about tomorrow."

"Yeah," Dean said lightly, eyes still riveted on Sam. "We do."

x

x

Sam stood beside Dean's bed and listened to the light rustle of rain against the windows, the wind shifting fitfully. The weathergirl had been right.

Dean was dead to the world. He was too soundly asleep to even snore, but Sam took comfort in the slow, regular pattern of his breathing. One arm lay outside the covers, and Sam took the opportunity to check his vitals, carefully pressing two fingers against the underside of his wrist. Even in drug-induced slumber, the hunter's senses were on alert, the touch setting off an alarm. He didn't wake, but his breath caught, his arm flinched as he tried to pull away. "It's okay," Sam whispered readily, anticipating the reaction, gently tightening his hold and laying a hand over his brother's brow, "it's okay." Dean was too deeply asleep to understand the words, but the response to his brother's voice was immediate and unambiguous. His arm fell limp and his slow, even breathing resumed.

His pulse was still a little faster than it should have been, but it was steady, even, and undoubtedly slowing. His forehead was cool, the skin dry, no sign of fever. Sam smoothed the hair back from Dean's brow, noticing it was longer than he'd seen it in years. Seemed lately, Dean couldn't be bothered to keep it trimmed. Obsession tended to crowd out the smaller things. Sam understood that. He tugged at the covers, slipping them over the exposed arm and gently tucking them around his brother's ears, and watched him for a moment. No movement beneath his eyelids. He slept in deep, dreamless peace. Sam was grateful.

And envious.

Then he smiled, thinking how furious and completely freaked out Dean would be to know that Sam had been standing over him like this, watching him, while he slept.

A frame of blue-gray light flickered across Dean's covers then. Sam felt queasy. "Ahh… Even rabid dogs look sweet when they're sleeping."

Far off in the distance thunder rumbled. A storm was coming.

Sam turned to the TV set. Lucifer stood lazily, but front and center, in the screen. The scene was an exterior shot, some anonymous country road, desolate and empty, and behind it stretched blank, barren fields, glowing dimly in moonlight. Lucifer was leaning against the Impala. He wore a scarred and tattered leather jacket, the rich brown color nearly black in this light, his fists buried deep in the pockets. Sam couldn't remember the last time he saw Dean's jacket. But there it was. With the Impala. On TV.

"Still, you know a rabid dog has to be put down eventually, don't you, Sam?" Lucifer pulled a gun from one of the coat pockets, and he pointed it now at what must have been the camera, then shifted its aim slightly to the right, over Sam's shoulder, at Dean. Sam knew this was ridiculous, he knew it couldn't be real, but he still felt his body go rigid. Lucifer pulled the trigger, and the gun clicked on an empty chamber. Then he shrugged, and his eyes met Sam's. "But it's not my job."

He slid the gun behind his back, beneath the waistband of the jeans he wore now. "You look surprised to see me. What, did you think if you focused hard enough on your whackjob brother, you'd cancel out your own crazy? Did you think saving him would save you?" His smile seemed almost sad. "It won't, Sam… You can't win this way. You may have won yourself a reprieve—a stay of execution, or committal, one of the two—but it's only temporary. It's only one night in March. All that effort, all that fighting, all that angst… was it really worth it, Sam? For one night?"

Sam faced the man who leaned against his brother's car, who dressed as his brother, and clearly meant to take his place. "Absolutely," he said.

And the image on the screen wavered then, the reception thinning. Just for a second. But it was unmistakable.

"You won't win, Sam. You can't. But you know what the saddest part of all this is?" He stepped away from the car behind him, into the road and toward the camera, until Sam could no longer see the Impala, or the jacket, because Lucifer's face filled the screen. "The saddest part is you'll fight this battle alone. I've offered to be at your side, but you insist on rejecting me. And as for your brother …" He shook his head slowly. "You had to all but beat him down with a stick to keep him in the same room with you. How long do you expect him to stay around when he finds out how much you've been hiding, how far gone you really are? He's in no state to fight for you, Sam. Even if he wanted to. And after everything that happened tonight …" His eyes softened, and the sadness they held looked very real. "Do you really think he'd want to?"

Sam stared back into Lucifer's blue eyes. He wished he could see the Impala again, one last time. Because in that instant he knew that he wouldn't. "Yeah," he said. "I really do."

The screen wavered again, the image flickered. He caught a half-smile on Lucifer's face as several waves rippled across it, blurring it. The volume dropped suddenly and the sound distorted, but he heard him say, "See you soon, kiddo," just before the screen went dark.

He stood there in the darkness for a while, listening to the sound of Dean breathing, the swell of rain against the windows. Thunder rolled in dully, closer this time. There seemed to be only one thing to do.

Sam gathered up the old Toshiba in his arms, pulled out the cable that connected it to a satellite dish outside, and headed for the front door, its power cord dragging along behind. He pulled open the door, a gust of wet wind rushing in, and deposited the TV set on the ground outside. Then he closed the door.

He was sitting at the corner of his bed, unlacing his trainers, and idly wondering if he'd gotten rid of all the glass, when a groggy voice in the dark mumbled, "S'mmy?"

"Hey. I thought you were asleep."

"I was, but … heard the door. Did you just…" Dean was either struggling to think or struggling to stay awake. "…put the TV out?"

Sam thought about it. Would one more lie really matter? Screw it. "Yep. Sure did."

"Oh." A brief pause. "Okay."

Sam smiled. He climbed out of his clothes and slid beneath the covers of his own bed, relishing the welcoming feel of the sheets. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to sink into the strangely pleasant exhaustion he felt.

"Hey, Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean."

The pause was long and lingering this time, and Sam was wondering if his brother had drifted back to sleep in mid-thought, when he spoke again.

"Man, you were …"

Sam waited. Another long, lingering pause, and Sam felt certain that Dean had lost his battle with sleep this time. He began to let himself drift.

"… awesome t'night."

Sam laughed, completely thrown. He wasn't sure what that meant or where it came from, maybe he'd think about it tomorrow, but right now it just struck him as funny as hell.

"m'sorry 'bout what I said," Dean continued in a slur. "'bout comin' here to rescue you. Pr'tty clear you din' need me."

Thunder rumbled softly again in the distance. Rain brushed the windows, heavier now. And Sam lay beneath his covers in the dark and thought about what Dean had just said. He swallowed back unexpected emotion.

"That's not true. I did need you ... and I still do."

Dean scoffed. "You're rhyming, you big girl … s'embarrassing. Jus' when I thought you were all kickass now…"

Sam smiled in the dark. Kickass. He was sort of kickass tonight, wasn't he? Of course it was mostly his brother's ass that he kicked; he'd be sure to remind Dean of that tomorrow.

A strange realization occurred to him then. That right here and now, in this moment, he hadn't felt this good, this strong, this okay, in longer than he could remember. And tomorrow he might not. Tomorrow, the day after, the week after that, he was likely to plummet back into the clutches of his own nightmares. Or the nightmares they faced in real life, on a daily basis, might rise up and shatter their ever-tenuous grip on balance, on well-being. But tonight, he was okay. Tonight he'd kicked Lucy's ass as well. Tonight he had his brother back at his side. Tonight he had his life back. And everything was right again. And maybe it wouldn't last. Maybe it was just for one lousy night in March.

But I'll fucking take it, he thought.

Dean couldn't possibly understand how he'd helped him tonight. Maybe he never would. But just the same, tomorrow Sam would tell him.

"I'm glad you're here, Dean," he said into the dark.

And for the last time that night, he was sure his brother had finally succumbed to the drug that should have knocked him out cold more than an hour ago. He closed his eyes, exhaled deeply, and let sleep begin to take him.

Just as he was slipping over the edge of consciousness, he heard Dean say quietly, "Me too."