Sam often had bad dreams. Hell, they both did. Nightmares that woke them up in a cold sweat, legs kicking like a dog dreaming of chasing rabbits, even making raw guttural sounds like Jack Nicholson in the Shining. But these dreams were different.

Sam didn't draw his long fingers together into fists like he was fighting, or sweat profusely like he was reliving burning in hell. He didn't kick. The first time Dean was aware of Sam having this new kind of bad dream, Sam simply rolled over to face the wall as they slept. His breath came a little faster. And he said, very quietly, "Dean, please. Don't."

Dean lifted his head from his pillow and murmured, "I got you, Sammy." This woke Sam up enough to stumble to the bathroom. Dean stretched out on his bed, then glanced over at Sam's pillow and noticed a dark stain on it.

"Dude. Gross! What, you're drooling in your sleep now?" Then he realized Sam's pillow was wet not with saliva, but with tears.

"What?" Sam emerged from the bathroom, adjusting his t-shirt.

"Nothing." As much as Dean loved giving Sam shit, he knew better than to draw attention to the fact that Sammy apparently cried in his sleep.

A few weeks later, after a particularly rough hunt that left them both sniping at each other in exhausted frustration, it happened again. Dean awoke to the sound of Sam talking in his sleep again. Sam was curled on his side, facing away from him. "Dean." His voice was quiet, anguished. "Dean. Please."

Dean got up, sat down on Sam's bed and shook his shoulder. "Hey, wake up." Sam didn't wake up.

"Don't. Dean, don't!" Sam's voice grew stronger, but he remained fast asleep. His breathing turned ragged, like he was on the verge of crying.

Dean chewed his lower lip. What the hell was he dreaming Dean was doing that was clearly so painful? Dean pulled Sam over onto his back and ruffled his hair.

"Sammy? Come on. Wake up. I'm here. It's ok. Wake up."

Sam woke with a start, and gave Dean a look he'd never seen on his brother's face before. So wary, poised on the edge of flinching, like he expected Dean to punch him in the face. Or worse.

It broke Dean's heart.

He wrapped his arms around Sam and held him in a bear hug. "Whatever the hell you're dreaming about, man, that ain't me. I'd never do anything to hurt you."

Sam said nothing, just hugged Dean back, slowly willing his body to calm and quiet itself.

Dean pulled himself up so he could look Sam in the eye, in the red and blue neon light spilling through the thin motel curtains. "You know that, right? I'd never do anything to hurt you."

Sam's eyes flicked to the side. "Yeah. I know." Dean let himself be convinced he was telling the truth, patted Sam's shoulder, returned to his bed and drifted off to a deep, dreamless sleep.

Sam seemed better for a while, but something was off. Dean caught Sam looking at him sometimes with a resigned sadness, which he quickly replaced with a pleasant neutral expression when he realized Dean was watching.

Dean tried being extra nice to Sam. Letting him have the fifth skinny egg roll in the order (why the hell didn't Chinese food places give an even number of egg rolls in the first place?), bringing him a girly coffee drink without giving him shit for it, letting him take the first shower. Sam warmed under these little signs of affection, but that dull ache never left his eyes completely.

But Dean was a moody bastard, and he knew it. They both were, and had worked to develop thick skins to not take it too personally when the other went off the rails. Living in each other's pockets meant it was all too easy to drive each other crazy. They did the best they could. But getting annoyed with each other from time to time was just part of the deal. Even so, Sam's thick skin was showing distinct signs of thinning.

So when Dean lit into Sam a week later for being too reckless when they were cleaning out a nest of ghouls, he expected Sensitive Sam to make an appearance and give him some bitch face. He didn't expect what actually happened.

"…damn it Sam, you have got to stop being so careless! What the hell were you thinking with that dumbass move? Last time I checked, you weren't Chuck Norris, and you can't… you can't just go crashing into a ghoul's nest like you won't get hurt." Dean stomped across the motel room floor and snatched up the whiskey bottle and a plastic "Sealed for your Protection" cup from the top of the dresser.

Sam sat on the bed, staring at his hands. "I thought there was only one of them. I'm sorry."

Dean tossed back a generous gulp of whiskey, masking the burn in his throat he always felt when he swallowed high-proof alcohol but he'd never admit to. Whiskey was supposed to hurt. "I mean, what the hell, dude? You forget all that training? What did Dad say? What did Dad drill into us? Never. Assume. There's only. One."

"I know. I know. You're right."

"You know? Then why the… Dammit, Sam. If I can't even have faith in you to follow the most basic—"

Sam was on his feet so fast Dean didn't even register seeing him stand up. "Don't say it." Sam's face was drawn, and his eyes glistened.

"What are you-"

Sam took two steps toward Dean. His body language was aggressive, an unmistakable challenge. "Don't. Say it."

The next thing Dean knew, he was standing alone in the motel room, brisk wind from the outside raising goose bumps on his arms, the sound of the slamming door reverberating in the room.

Sam stayed gone for hours. Dean finally gave up and went to bed around 2 am. He awoke around an hour later and saw Sam hunched over at the little table, plastic glass of whiskey in front of him, staring at something. He wiped the back of his hand hard across his eyes, and tucked whatever he'd been looking at into his wallet.

Later, he heard Sam's bed creak as Sam's heavy weight settled into the mattress, but he did not face Dean like he always did. Instead, he curled into himself, facing away.

Sure enough, Sam had another bad dream.

"Dean. Don't. Come on. Don't do it. Please.…" Sam was babbling, completely asleep.

Dean went to Sam, perching on the end of his bed and shook him. "I won't, Sam. Whatever it is, I won't, ok? I'm not gonna do it. Just wake up, ok? Wake up. Sam!"

The command tone of his voice snapped Sam out of the dream, but he didn't calm down for a long time. Dean just leaned back against the wall, keeping his hand on Sam's shoulder until he stopped shaking.

Sometimes Dean would let their little fights drag out, not willing to be the one to make the first move. But this was different. He could feel it was different. Risky, somehow. The stakes were higher.

So that morning, when it was clear they were both awake, Dean said, "Hey, Sammy?"

Sam roused with a start.

Dean sat up. "Hey, man. Sorry about being such a dick last night. I was out of line."

Sam groaned. "I'm sorry too. Just… I dunno. Not sleeping or something. I'm a little off." He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. "Need to use the room before I grab a shower?"

"Nah, I'm good."

Sam headed toward the bathroom without meeting Dean's gaze.

"What do you dream that I do?"

Sam stopped in his tracks. "What?"

"You talk in your sleep, dude. 'Dean. Don't. Please don't.' So… what is it you dream that I do?"

Sam looked back over his shoulder. "Just dreams. Don't mean anything."

"Hey. We gonna talk about this?"

What gleamed in Sam's eyes wasn't anger or frustration. It was an ache, a sadness that stretched so deep Dean wanted to name it grief. "Nothing to talk about, man." And with that, Sam padded softly to the shower.

No chick-flick moments. How many times had he drummed that into Sam's head? "I don't want to talk about it, Sam." "Not gonna talk about it, Sam." And now Dean was dying, just dying to talk about their feelings, and Sam was doing his best Dean impression. Figured he'd finally take the message to heart at exactly the worst moment.

The water kicked on with a thump that rattled the bathroom walls, and the soft spatter-hiss of the shower roused Dean from staring at the closed door.

He looked at Sam's wallet, tucked underneath his hoodie on the little table. The shower door clicked as Sam stepped inside.

Dean stared at the item in his hand. The one Sam had been staring at last night. Nothing special. No photo of a long-lost love. No letter filled with recrimination or heartbreak.

It was just a picture of Dean.

Just a candid shot of Dean leaning against a wall that Sam took with one of those disposable cameras from a drugstore. He still had his leather jacket then, with the collar popped like he liked to do sometimes, and the amulet, polished brass gleaming against his black shirt.

Just a picture of Dean. So what the hell about it was so…

When he finally got it, he couldn't believe it had actually taken him that long to figure it out.

Ever since Dean dropped that amulet in the trash, he'd felt it on his chest like a phantom limb. Reached to take it off before he stepped into the shower, and been surprised to find he wasn't wearing it. It didn't take long for him to regret the gesture. See it for what it was. Childish and deliberately cruel in a way he didn't think he had in him topside. In Hell, sure. That's where he learned the art of the dramatic gesture that telegraphed the unavoidable torture about to happen, that brutal moment of anticipation. That's what animated him in that moment when he let the amulet drop from his hand and held the cord in his fingers, dangling it over the waste basket, knowing Sam's heart was in his throat, knowing he was silently begging him.

Dean. Please. Don't.

If Sam had seen Dean's face in that moment, he would have seen that same flare of dark pleasure that burst across his face when the angels bound Alistair for Dean to torture. Sadism at its finest. Let's get started.

Because he really had been Alistair's star pupil.

The sharpest agony was not physical, but emotional. Dean knew how to strike at the heart of his victims. Like he struck at Sam's in a bleak moment when he had lost his faith in everything. Including Sam. And left a wound that had still not healed.

Dean. Please. Don't.

Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove, trying to figure out how the hell he was going to fix this. Sam stared out the window, lost in his own thoughts.

Somehow Dean knew that just saying words wouldn't cut it. He could tell Sammy all sorts of pretty things, but they could never match the force of that dramatic gesture. Never match the fact that he took the amulet he had worn every day for years, the amulet that Sam had lifted free from Dean's dead body and worn around his own neck until Dean was returned to him, taken that amulet and tossed it in a motel trash can, while Sam watched helplessly.

Now he was reliving it in his head, the way he now knew Sam was, over and over. Back turned to Sam. Let the amulet fall so it hangs from the end of the cord. Linger there to really drive the nail home. (Dean. Please. Don't.) Open your hand and break your Sammy's heart. Dull thud as the amulet strikes the bottom of the waste basket.

Dean hadn't realized he had actually flinched at the remembered sound until he felt Sam's hand on his shoulder. "You ok?"

Dean swallowed, too guilt-ridden to look anywhere but straight ahead. "I'm always ok, Sam," he said in his best impression of Cocky Dean. How the hell was he going to fix this?

If he could have found an accurate replica, he would have bought it, put it on, told Sam, "Hey, guess what? I went back and fished it out of the garbage can. You didn't believe I would actually toss it out like that for real, did you?"

But that would never work. Besides, he couldn't find anything similar to his amulet. Guess it really was one of a kind.

What a monumental ass he'd been.

Every day, he felt the phantom amulet around his neck, pressing its pointy horns into his skin when he slept on his stomach, bouncing up to hit him in the mouth when he ran or fought. Ok, he didn't miss that part. He'd bloodied his lip on it countless times, and chipped a tooth twice.

And no matter how many times he sat next to Sam in the Impala, grinning like there's no place he'd rather be than on the road with his brother, how many times he told Sam there was nothing, past or present, he put ahead of Sam, that sadness was still there in Sam's eyes. That knowledge that Dean didn't have faith in him. The wound was still there. He could see that now. The wound he'd carved into Sam.

Dean wasn't the only one who felt the ghost of that amulet.

The one thing Dean couldn't bear was Sam in pain. The one thing Dean hated most was anything that hurt his Sammy. For too long, he'd paid attention only to Sam's physical pain. He'd missed the most obvious hurt of all.

Dean may have been topside, but he was back in Hell.

It was the hunt in Oakland that gave him the solution. Coming down from a clean kill in the hills, they stopped at a bakery near the lake that made a kick-ass sourdough pizza, cookies that would later to prove to be addictive, and some kind of sweet roll called Wolverines that Sam practically inhaled and insisted on buying a dozen of for later. The woman at the register wore a sleeveless shirt, exposing a stunning tattoo.

"Dude! It's the tentacle guy from the pirate movie!" Dean sounded like a 12-year-old boy, and that wasn't the first time that comparison had been made about him.

"Whoa." Sam poked a chunk of Wolverine into his mouth as he slid cash across the counter and eyed her ink.

Dean studied the tattoo. "That's really incredible work." The tattoo was so expertly drawn and shaded it seemed to rise off the skin like 3-D. The woman actually blushed when Dean brushed his finger against her skin. "Where'd you get it done?"

Later that night, after they had eaten their heirloom tomato and red onion pizza and stuffed the space that remained in their stomachs with chocolate chip cookies, Sam collapsed on his bed, and Dean cracked open the laptop and looked up the website for the artist that did such brilliantly photo-realistic tattoos. Turns out the guy was willing to boot someone from his schedule for triple his rate for an emergency rush-job.

The next morning, Dean set his plan in motion.

"Man, I'm beat. Aren't you beat? I'm so sick of being on the road. What do you say say we stay here for a few days, huh? You can jog around the lake every day like the rest of those morons. You love shit like that." Sam didn't take much convincing, especially when a Google search revealed a Thai restaurant near the bakery that served brown rice (to which news Dean dutifully made a retching sound), and a café that was decorated full-on Day of the Dead.

Dean pretended he was going to take BART into San Francisco to get some supplies from an occult shop in the Haight. When Sam went to take his shower, he slipped the photo from Sam's wallet.

That night, Sam was in a great mood (probably from the stupid jogging endorphins, a meal of artisan tofu and plant life, and a triple espresso). Dean sat on the bed, fully dressed, watching "Biggest Loser."

Sam loped over, and flopped down on the other bed like a dog. A big, tofu-eating dog. "Whatcha doing?"

"I'm watching my show, Sam. Duh."

Sam gave Dean shit for watching reality TV, but Dean shut him down. "Hey. This show changes lives, man."

Dean's t-shirt kept the bandage on his chest hidden. The tattoo artist had instructed him to leave it on overnight and take it off first thing in the morning.

In the morning, Sam offered to go get them coffee and pecan rolls. If Dean wanted coffee, that is. He would get tea if Dean would rather have tea, or if Dean wanted bagels instead he could get those instead...

Dean cut him off. "Easy there, Rain Man. Coffee and pecan rolls sounds awesome. I'm gonna grab a shower."

"Ok. I'll be right back." With that, Sam raced off to get breakfast, and Dean took a shower. He dried himself off, got his hair the way he liked it, and put on his sweat pants and a grey flannel, unbuttoned, revealing his bare chest and the tattoo.

Sam rustled through the door, and the scent of strong coffee filled the motel room. He set a large paper bag down on the table and a cardboard tray containing two large coffees. "I got the pecan rolls, and more of those Wolverines, and they had this amazing looking chocolate bread thing…"

"Hey, Sam, could you come give me a hand in here?" Dean tried to keep his voice steady, but it wavered. He was nervous. This was gonna bring up a lot of bad memories and poke pointed sticks in the general vicinity of deep wounds, and it could go really, epically wrong.

Sam was through the door almost instantly, his protective instinct always at the forefront. "Everything alright?" His eyes searched Dean's…and then he dropped his gaze to Dean's chest.

Right where the amulet had always lain was a tattoo, gleaming with ointment. Photo-realistic didn't begin to cover it. It looked like the amulet was nestled on Dean's chest, rising off his skin in three dimensions.

Sam fell back, gripping the door jamb. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.

"Every day since I threw it away, I've regretted it. Every. Single. Day." Dean's voice was quiet, but carried the weight of truth. Sam knew Dean's I'm Being Totally Fucking Honest voice. And this was it. "It was… I mean, such a dick move."

Sam scrutinized Dean's face like it was a key piece of research. That blink-and-I'll-flinch expression was back. And it broke Dean's heart all over again.

Still not making a sound, Sam took a few steps closer to Dean. He reached out as if to touch it, but drew his hand back. "Why? Why now?"

Dean took a deep breath. "Figured out what you were dreaming about. What you didn't want me to do." What you begged me not to do. "Can't take it back. Thought I could make it right."

Sam just stared, and the muscles in his jaw twitched.

"You gotta know…I didn't lose my faith in you. I lost my faith. Period. In the whole of human fucking existence, with me at the top of the list. But you… Sam… you're the only thing. You've always been the only thing. I thought you knew that."

"You thought wrong." Sam's body and face seemed perfectly placid, but tears rolled down his face. That only happened when he felt something so extreme, his body clamped down on showing any signs of emotion, but his limbic system didn't get the memo.

Dean took Sam's hand, pressed his scarred palm against the tattoo and held it there. It hurt, but it was nothing compared to the real pain floating around that room, the ghost of that act that needed dispelling.

"Sam? This? This is real." Sam's eyes opened wider. "This isn't going anywhere. Ever. Stays with me 'till I die. Like you. That necklace? I took it off every day. Couldn't get the damn thing wet, remember?"

Sam laughed and wiped his other hand over his face.

"I was always afraid of losing it in a fight. Someone stealing it. This is better. This is permanent. You get me?"

Sam looked at Dean for the longest time, hand pressed against the tattoo of the amulet. Long enough for something to loosen its grip behind his eyes and fall away. "Yeah. I get you."

THE END