Author's Note: Hello, everyone! Thanks for reading and reviewing! I'm so incredibly sorry that the update took me eternities, but my mind just wouldn't allow me to get forward with it. I hate it when I have writer's block. Anyways, hereby the next chapter. I hope that I'll get out of that pit soon so that updating doesn't take me that awfully long anymore.

Let me know what you think about it. I'm still working my way through the story... even though I have the ending already written ;)

Read, review, and hopefully enjoy ;)

Darkness. Cold darkness. A pit with no beginning or end. Ghastly contourless fingers stretching out, gripping to whatever comes their way, pulling tight, unforgiving, cruelly, leaving scars and fissures on their way. Senses lose senses. The eye is confronted with hearing sounds, so shrill, so high, low, loud, silent, everywhere, nowhere, in one place, two, a million. Images, flashes of light bedazzle the ears. You taste the stench of decay on your tongue, your nose feels the bubbling sensation of sweetness, just to turn bitter. And the skin just feels pain. Every inch on fire, ever inch on ice, burned, shriveled, cut, shredded.

And then suddenly, voices, whispers, screams, cries.

One. Then two. Then a hundred. Five hundred.

Too many.

Louder, ever louder.

More, ever more.

Falling.

Falling and collapsing into them.

"'my?"

A specter, white, flickering, tiny.

"'am?"

A hand to the chest, but no pain this time.

The white flicker resonates further, louder, stronger, brighter.

"Sammy?"

Sam opens his eyes with a silent gasp dying on his lips as he comes around. He blinks against the harsh light of a street lamp, but then frowns as he still feels that hand... oh, Dean's hand. Right, Dean is here. That wasn't part of the dream. That was reality. That happened. He is with Dean again. And he is not in that tunnel of voices, but with Dean, in the Impala, on some dirt road...

That is reality.

"Sammy?" his brother's voice rings again in that gruff but still soft baritone. Sam focuses his eyes on Dean, who flashes a grin at him.

"Finally awake, Sleeping Beauty?" Dean chuckles as he pulls away.

"Seemingly," Sam grimaces, sitting up again. "Where are we?"

"Past the border," Dean tells him. "I just wanted to ask you where we wanna stay the night."

"Huh?" Sam frowns at him incredulously.

"Well, I don't know how many... voices or whatever you can handle. I mean, we can camp in the car if you feel better, then, or we go for some small motel with not too many guests. You just have to tell me what you're best with," Dean replies. And Sam has to try hard to keep the tears from evading his eyes, out of sheer gratitude. Even though Dean just got thrown into Sam's personal madness, the older brother already bothers himself with helping him the best he can. He'd even camp in the Impala for the rest of his life if that would make Sam any more comfortable.

It's just so familiar that Sam's chest feels warm again.

And he feels bad for it.

"I'm fine with a small motel," the younger man replies.

"And you're sure? I mean, not that I doubt you, it's just... I don't want you to say that coz of me or so. I'm really fine sleeping in the Impala also," Dean assures him. He'd be fine with anything for as long as it's for Sammy. That is so deeply embedded into Dean's very being that it is perfectly out of question for the older brother.

"It's fine, really," Sam nods, managing a feeble smile.

"Alright, then motel it is," Dean smirks. He pulls in on the road again, a smirk tugging at his lips. It feels almost like it did before all this happened, before Sammy disappeared.

Just them and the street.

Just Sam and Dean.

Soon a not-too-shabby motel comes into view.

"Looks alright to you?" Dean asks as they near the building. "Or... sounds alright to you?"

"There's only eight other guests, plus the staff," Sam nods. "That's okay."

"Any hot chicks?" Dean smirks. "And I don't mean those that just think they are pretty?"

Sam nudges him in the arm, to which the older brother chuckles more excitedly than he maybe should, but... they are joking again. Just the way they used to, well, not just the way yet, but... on the way there. They will get there eventually, right?

They exit and get a room.

"Doesn't look as bad as I feared it would," Dean says as he shrugs out of his jacket. Sam still takes in the view, though.

"Alright, so... you wanna go take first shower?" Dean offers.

"No, you can go first," Sam replies.

"Really?" Dean frowns. They usually always fought about that – and honestly, a part of Dean hoped that Sam would instantly join the old game. Because the old game would make it a bit more like it used to, before Sammy left and ended up in those asylums, before Dean's tiny cosmos was ripped to shreds and left bloody on the ground, like the bloody feathers of a bird whose wings were cut off.

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead, I wanna... look a little longer," Sam tells him.

"For what?" Dean frowns, to which the younger man just shrugs, "Just... look around the room. Get used to it again."

Dean looks at him now almost sadly as the realization hits him – this is the first time in a long time that Sammy is in, well, a room that is not locked from the other side, where no nurses roam around the corridors like prison guards.

"And no worries, I'll salt the doors and windows," Sam adds, offering a small smirk as he realizes the distress rising within his older brother. Even if Sam tries not to read Dean, emotions are something he cannot really shut out. They just seep through any persons being, so even if the younger man tries anything not to learn more about Dean's thoughts, his older brother's emotions are no secret to him.

"Well, if that's whatcha want," Dean shrugs as he takes out a new set of clothing and other utensils. Even if he would rather not leave Sam out of sight for only just a second, Dean knows he can't, well, he could, but that doesn't mean he should, really. So he will have to trust Sam not to just mysteriously disappear once he turns his back on him. He has to, or else it won't work, Dean keeps telling himself. Trust has two ends. If you want other people to trust you, you have to trust the other person. And Dean, more than anything, wants not only to have his brother's back again, but he wants Sam to have his back again, too.

Dean is just done being alone.

He wants to be whole again.

And that only works with Sam around him.

He hands Sam the bucket of salt before he makes his way into the bathroom. Once the younger man hears the water running, he almost leaps to the doors and windows to salt them. He hopes it was still in time, because mistakes mustn't happen from now on. One wrong move and it's over. No Impala. No motel rooms. No Dean. And that can't happen.

Because Sam is done being alone.

He wants to be whole again.

And that only works with Dean around him, as much as the realization pains him.

Because it shouldn't be.

Sam takes out tiny bags from his pocket and starts to hide them throughout the room. Once he is done with that, he takes out a tiny piece of chalk and starts to scribble odd-looking sigils in the corners. A weary smirk tugs at his lips at the familiarity of the sensation against his skin as he rolls the bit of chalk between thumb and index finger. It's strange how a stubble of white chalk can offer security, safety.

Just as one person, which is so little compared to the rest of the world, the universe, can mean everything to you, can be a world of its own, so powerful that no matter how hard you try, you are just always pulled back by its gravity. It can mean so much that you go... beyond, simply beyond, for that one person, this tiny world with the gravity that keeps you.

Sam looks around, his heart beating so loud that his eardrums shake to its rhythm. However, after that surge of energy and movement, his muscles protest, so he allows himself to flop down on the bed, breathing hard as the lights above him start their mean little dance, breaking white light into all colors of the spectrum, rays becoming dots, stillness becoming movement.

Sam's body feels weak, no, it is weak. And he hates it for this weakness, even though the hunter knows it's a natural side-effect of the time he spent in the asylums. And if not for his mind to be that weak, he wouldn't...

The young man shakes his head. He can't think about it, not yet. He doesn't want to. The heater is humming so rhythmically, almost soothingly. He should focus on that. Focus on what he has, not on what he left or what he might have to leave again. Sam brushes a hand over the covers, feeling the rough, yet still somehow smooth texture of the fabric, mesmerizing at the color he can feel vibrating through his fingertips. He loves the way orange feels like.

Sam closes his eyes again, the orange slowly but surely fading into black. And that is when the voices come back, scurrying, shuffling their feet nervously. Like horses that want to gallop away, into wilderness, beyond the horizon. Louder. Ever louder. Sam lets out a shaky breath. He has to concentrate again, keep the voices away, or at least... keep them small enough so that they cause no trouble. Because he can't reach further, mustn't. Or else... no, not thinking about it, or else there are the pictures again. And Sam can't have the pictures or his mind is leading astray all over. His temples throb from the inside out, so much that Sam is convinced horns will snake their way out of his skull. He presses his palms against the hurting spots to keep the imagined horns from growing, only for his vision to flicker like the shitty TVs he still remembers from his childhood. Sam oppresses the moan on his lips and swallows it back down, letting out a shaky breath.

Oh no, now mouthwash is all over my clothes. What a mess. "I told you to put the fuckin' mouthwash into the shaving kit so that for when it opens, it doesn't spill all over my clothes! Now look at that, asshole!"

"Let's see..." - Newspaper or watching news... News.

"We have to get gas in the morning." - That means you go.

"Oh, yeah, thanks for reminding me. I almost forgot." - No shit! As if the fuel gage would keep it a secret. God, you're so stupid.

"Of course I will, just give me two more minutes, darling." - God, get fuckin' out of here and let me watch my show!

"Oh, that's interesting." - Why doesn't she just stop talking?!

"You like it?" - He looks like a pig when he's eating.

"A double date with Mariah and her husband? Sure, why not." - What if she knows about Mariah and I?

"Awesome, I bet Mariah will be delighted." - I know you're lying to me, you asshole, and I'll make you suffer for it.

"Good evening Sir, how can I help you?" - All my friends party and I'm stuck here. I hate my life.

"Love you, honey." - I hate you!

"Love you, too." - I hate you more!

Sam's eyes flutter open. He hates it, to be exposed to those lies. They are like vines creeping their way up and down your body, long tendrils with sharp thorns digging into your flesh until blood flows freely, leaving you dizzy and unable to tell the difference between reality and lie anymore. Once you get sucked into your own lie cosmos, you hardly get out. Sam is no different, he knows, but it hurts him, deep down, to perceive those people, feel their souls beating within his own, and how they get caught up for... such trivialities. When they could have it so easy.

Sam covers his eyes with his forearm as the throbbing increases again. Each word, each thought, a stab in his temple. And each stab a painful reminder that he took the easy way after all. That he simply sought slumber, numbing, that sharpness became dull, so that colors faded away. It's on him, it always is.

Because he is that weak. And will probably continue to be.

Because that is just the way things always are.

Because that's his destiny.

Sam bolts up from the bed and searches for the bag with the pills, his hands hastily searching for the right pill box, but he can't find it.

"Goodnight." - Why didn't we take two queens?

"I'll see you in the morning." - Sadly.

"Of course I can work for another hour." - Because I don't have a life either.

"No problem." - Yes it is a problem!

"Sleep well."- Yeah, so you leave me the hell alone.

Sam finally finds the pill-box with the right label, pops it open hastily and swallows two pills dry.

"Everything okay?" Dean's voice rings from the bathroom as he comes out, towelling his hair, his frown deep. Sam turns around – he honestly forgot about Dean in the bathroom for a second. The voices are too distracting.

"Yeah, I just forgot to... take these," Sam admits, wiggling the pill container at his older brother. Dean can't help the sad grimace.

"We can still go some other place if this is too crowded for you," Dean offers. Maybe they should have stayed in the Impala after all, damn. Since when did living one's life get so complicated?

Or well... That's actually nothing new to him. Complicated is their life's definition... ever since the night their mother died.

"No, it's fine, I... I always take them around the time," Sam goes on. "And I'm not used to this yet."

"But you were in that asylum. There were more than roundabout ten people," Dean argues, because that is something he honestly wonders about – if Sam couldn't handle being around people, then why didn't he just, well, camp out in the wild or so? At least that is what Dean imagines he would have done, though he can't really imagine it because he can't even remotely picture what it is like to have other people inside your head, and being unable to do anything about that.

"Yeah, and I was drugged up my ass," Sam huffs. "But honestly, it's fine. I just... I just take some time to adjust. I didn't have to shut the voices out in a while, so I just have to..."

"To sit it out," Dean nods, though the grimace stays.

"Right," Sam nods as he puts the container away again.

"Are those the knockout-pills?" Dean asks with a sad frown.

"No," Sam shakes his head. "They just... well, deafen the sounds and make me a bit... lazy."

"Well, if that's whatcha say," Dean sighs uncomfortably. "Then how about you grab a shower while I order something for dinner?"

"Sure," Sam nods, feeling curiously sad and relieved at the same time. The first shower in... freedom, or is it? Dean flashes a smirk before Sam disappears into the white-tiled bathroom, shutting the door hastily. The older brother tosses the towel he used on his hair on his bed before he lines up the pills still scattered on the wooden table. Dean twists one of the containers between his finger absently, allowing the light to reflect itself in it. He can't help the sad grimace, again. A part of him is glad that it seemingly just takes a pill to make it a little easier for Sammy, but then he sees the sheer amount and variety of pills – and that just makes him sick. The only time he saw so many containers in his life, he went to a haunted building where drug addicts hung around at to get a fix. Even though every ounce of his very being tells Dean that Sammy is no addict, Dean can't help but tell himself that it's an addict's survival kit, or isn't it? And as much as Dean hates to think it, now ever the more because Sammy can probably hear all of it, it scares him that his brother is... on that road. Because that is the one thing he never imagined, other than the mindreading, of course. Dean could picture Sam getting hurt or killed, even though it made him want to die instantly, he could picture him as a family father, as a lawyer, but his Sammy allowing substances to numb him? That just seems wrong in itself. Dean can still recall more than vividly how Sammy, already as a baby, would have the curiosity in his eyes, that spark of seeking more. And Sammy surely let actions follow. Once he learned how to speak, he demanded more. And even if that brought about a lot of trouble, Dean could always marvel about Sam always wanting to understand, understand that math problem, why the sky is blue, 2ah some people have freckles, why they stayed in motels and not in a real house, why they moved around so much, why one's head hurts after too much ice cream, why their mom died. His eyes sucked in whatever came their way, no matter how hurtful that turned out to be for him at times, something that made Dean scared and hurt at times, but most of the time, he was simply astonished and impressed with what he thinks is one of Sam's greatest strengths. Sam never stopped short before the truth.

But now...

Now Dean has to learn that Sam kept more than one secret from him. He stopped short before that truth then, didn't he? However, none of it would matter to Dean if not for Sam's dull eyes, as though his once crystal-clear and all-consuming irises shut down the moment he took that pill, no way for the outside to come in – and no way for the inside to come back out. And that scares Dean, honestly scares him, because that spark in Sam's eyes was what made Sam Sam, at least in the older brother's opinion.

Dean shakes his head. Fine, then maybe Sam is not fully back yet. So what? After their father's death... he was a wreck also. Drank too much and did stupid things. So he should cut Sam some slack, right? He was in friggin' asylums and was drugged up, because people are just that ignorant. It's not Sammy's fault, that much is clear. They can figure this out, or rather, Dean already made up the plan that he will figure this out, get Sammy better again, so that his eyes open back up.

Meanwhile, Sam undressed and got under the shower, allowing the droplets to travel down his skin. He leans his head against the wall, finding comfort in the coolness of the tiles. He can hear the voices fade into the background again, as though the water raining down on him just washed them away. Once he feels the water running cold, Sam steps out of the shower and over to the mirror. He wipes his hand over the surface to wipe the condensate away. And for a moment he really thinks he sees another person glancing back at him. Sure, it's still the same hair color, still the same nose, same forehead, but his eyes look different. Dull. Sunken in. Sickly. His face is pale, pallid, almost waxy, not that this comes as a great surprise given that he didn't see much sunlight in an agonizingly long time. And there are wrinkles Sam can't remember having.

He really doesn't look like himself.

They didn't have mirrors in the asylums, too afraid that the guests would end up smashing and hurting themselves with them. Not that Sam actually shed a single tear about that circumstance. Even if he had had a mirror, Sam wouldn't have dared to risk only just a single glance. He was afraid of what would look back at him.

He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.
And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you.

Sam can still remember reading that quote by Nietzsche as a teenager. Back then he didn't think anything of it, but in the retrospective, it's so horribly fitting to Sam and his life that it sends shivers down his spine. And that is why he couldn't stand to look into a mirror back then, the words resonating in his mind like a faint echo. Because Sam was afraid that he already became an abyss and that the abyss would look back at him, reminding him that he had already fallen into it, with no way back anymore. So no, Sam didn't need the reminder from reality that his life had taken a turn that threw him into an abyss that means to collapse into him any moment now, if it didn't already.

So why does he even look in the mirror?

Because, deep down, Sam knows that he has to return to that unforgiving reality if he wants to be a part of it. And he has to be a part of it because that is... Dean's world. Because in Dean's world there are mirrors, and that includes not only the furniture. People, so Sam learned, are mirrors in themselves. They reflect their past by how they act now, repeating patterns or purposely neglecting them. They reflect their future, by acting how they want to be, even if that beam of light often ends up broken by the ray reflected from the past. They reflect the people in their lives, in how far the people they let close, call friends and family, changed them or left them unchanged. They reflect other people by how they react to them, their actions, if they judge, join, support, leave.

And that scares him, simply scares him, because Sam is for one part so sure what he reflects, if not for that pale sick man looking back at him at this very moment already, but the part that scares him far more is the one that he doesn't know about. Because, even though mirrors reflect everything that hits the surface, it doesn't reflect the back of the mirror, neither does the back reflect to the outside. And in between that... everything can happen.

And that scares Sam.

The young hunter turns away from the taunting reflection as it smirks at him mischievously to put his clothes on before he simply walks out, leaving the evil sick man where it is. Sam runs a hand over his face as he walks back into the room where Dean is busying himself with cleaning his guns. Some things really never change, as it seems.

"Now look at that, a new man," Dean chuckles as he looks up from the revolver in his hand. "How's the head?"

"Better now," Sam tells him as he sits down facing his older brother.

"Good," Dean smirks. "So, I ordered pizza. Hope that's okay with you?"

Sam nods absently. He couldn't care less about food to be perfectly honest. But he knows that for Dean, someone is only healthy for as long as he eats, to keep the engine running.

The older brother glances at Sam, suddenly no longer sure what to do or say. He can't even tell where that comes from, but now that he is face-to-face with the younger man again like that... Dean always was someone who attacked problems head-on, and there is a problem, right in front of his eyes, a problem he has to solve somehow. Yet, he also knows that at this point, he has to be careful not to break anything, not to break Sam. And that is against his notion of attacking a problem head-on, pretty much.

"We gotta get you new clothes, still, but I think that can wait till morrow," Dean hums as he goes on cleaning his gun, glancing through the barrel to check if it's clean. "Sometimes it really pays off when you don't try stuff on. That means you always have something that's too big or too small."

"True," Sam nods curtly.

"Hm, well, I thought we should keep on the road for a while longer, you know, just to be on the safe side," Dean goes on.

"Would be favorable," Sam agrees. "You're almost out of salt. We should get some new."

"Add that to the list," Dean nods.

"Yeah," Sam sighs.

And that is when silence hits both of them right in the face. Dean licks his lips nervously when it dawns on him that he can't just go on like this.

"... are we talking about this now?" Dean asks in a casual tone, his eyes not leaving the gun in his hands as he goes on cleaning. Sam licks his lips.

"About what exactly?" he brings out, his voice croaked.

"All this? I mean... I get it that there are things you are not ready for yet, but... I'm still trying to... grasp this," Dean admits, now searching Sam's eyes.

"And I understand that," Sam nods, nervously biting down on the side of his index finger as he draws one knee up to lean his arm on. Dean tries hard not to concentrate on that too hard because it makes his brother look even younger. And a younger version of Sam means that he grows soft, and Dean can't grow soft. He needs some answers.

"But?" Dean scaffolds.

"But I don't really know what I'm supposed to tell you," Sam replies.

"Well, uhm... how you ended up in the asylums, now for real, for example? I mean... we went undercover in such places before... why didn't you... try to get back out... or... call, so we could get you out? I don't get it, honestly, I don't. I mean, it has been years, Sammy," Dean brings out. "You said you were just tired of telling people that you weren't crazy, but... why didn't you take off? What happened to get you there in the first place?"

And for agonizing seconds, Sam just goes on staring at the pattern of the wallpaper behind Dean. The older brother can feel the beads of sweat starting to form on his forehead again. Something in Sam's attitude puts him off, completely. Sammy always was a little lunatic, but to see his little brother so far gone while he is right in front of him, it tears at Dean's very soul. The older man wants to know, badly, to figure this out, but at the same time, he is honestly... afraid, afraid that any question, any comment, might make this card house crumble. And that is why Dean has the words on the tip of his lips, that it doesn't matter, that they can talk about this later.

But they can't talk about this later.

Dean needs to know, something, anything, so that he can understand how on earth his beloved brother ended up in such a place of all places and didn't ever pick up the phone to get help. Revival of the good old times or not, Dean has to know, because honestly? He has been fed enough lies over the past. And that includes the lies no one tells but are just the things people are too afraid to say out loud. And Dean can't fix anything for as long as he is left in the dark.

He already means to say something else when Sam suddenly speaks up, his voice unnaturally monotonous.

"I... did a séance...," Sam mutters.

"Why?" Dean makes a face. "I thought you wanted to get away... from... all of it, hunting included."

Sam bites on his fingernail as he explains, "Just stumbled over it."

Sam can't be serious, can he? He can't think that this serves as a good explanation, right? But Sam seemingly does, because even after a minute of glancing at the wallpaper, the younger man won't say a single word.

"Seriously?" Dean snorts.

"Yep," Sam replies with a shrug.

"That's all you say?" Dean questions another time, to which Sam nods wordlessly.

Great, just great.

"Fine, okay, you did a séance for some reason...," Dean mutters. He has to take what he gets, right?

"Yeah, in a church, to summon a spirit... but something went wrong and the not-so-friendly other ghost actually there too came out and that guy ended up possessing somebody who was in the church by the time... we had a fight. We pushed each other around for a while, fist-fight, you know how it goes. He landed very... unfortunately against a wall with a massive metal hook and impaled himself. I used the moment to search for the bones, and found them near to where we were standing. He seemingly tried to keep me away from them, I guess. So I burned the bones and the ghost was gone for good... Sadly, the guy who's been possessed died from the wound... meanwhile, someone must've called police, and they found me pretty much drenched in the man's blood. And then they also found the ritual site from the séance...," Sam's voice trails off as his eyes fix on the pattern of the wallpaper. There is no point in arguing about it, or making it a mystery. It happened that way, just that it went another.

"... so they assumed you were into the whole satanic shit," Dean nods.

"Hm," Sam hums, not meeting his eyes. "I got a blow to the head before, so I was really... not that much into it when they questioned me. I just babbled shit I wasn't supposed to... talking about stuff I shouldn't know... and talking to what I thought were more than three people, even though I just ended up hearing their voices inside their heads, plus that of some neighbors... well... they connected the dots."

"Okay, well, that happens even to the best," Dean grimaces. "But why didn't you give dad and I a call to come get you?"

"... I wanted to take care of business before," Sam shrugs, biting on his fingernail absently.

"What business?" Dean frowns, to which Sam shrugs again, "Family business. Hunting things. What we do."

"There was a case," Dean translates. Sam nods, still not meeting his eyes, "Vengeful spirits, a whole bunch of them."

"So you took care of those," Dean nods, keeping his voice leveled. "Fine. But what was after that?"

"After that... I was moved to another... and it just started all over again," Sam shrugs with a kind of nonchalance that makes Dean want to throw up.

"So... you just always happened to be brought to asylums with a bunch of vengeful spirits," Dean grimaces.

"Yup," Sam nods absently. "You got no idea how many die a death in there that they can't accept, die a death they maybe didn't even deserve..."

"... then why didn't you call so we could take care of it together?" Dean asks again.

"I told you before, I walked away because I hear what you think, see what you feel...," Sam hums.

"Even if I don't like it, I get that to some degree, but... but Sam, a psych ward, c'mon," Dean argues.

"It's not like I camped in the streets," Sam shrugs.

"No, you lived in a facility where they restrained you and drugged you up. Coz that's so much better," Dean snorts.

"There's worse," Sam tells him nonchalantly.

"Like?" Dean grimaces, but Sam just rewards him with another shrug. Really, the older brother fights any urge to not to take Sam by the shoulders and shake him so that he stops shrugging at him. Dean is doing a chick-flick moment even though he hates them, but he sees the necessity, in contrast to his younger brother as it seems. However, Sam doesn't seem to take notice at all, or if he does, he purposely ignores it.

"Well?" Dean grimaces, but the answer doesn't come. Instead, Sam leans his chin on his knee, absently rolling a cartridge from right to left with only the brush of his fingertips. Dean puts the gun in his hands down on the table with a clink before he snaps his fingers in front of Sam's eyes. The younger man takes a long moment until he stops pushing it around, but still won't meet Dean's eyes.

"Sam? Sam, can you look at me for a second?" Dean demands, trying anything he can to keep his voice calm and soft, though he finds it ever so difficult when he can feel the frustration and anger bubbling in his throat, making it sore. However, that is when his younger brother looks at him.

"I... don't wanna talk about it," he tells him mutely.

"But will you someday, I wonder?" Dean huffs.

"Dunno," Sam shrugs.

"Dunno?! Dunno! Sam, we're having serious discussion here, okay? I think even on meds you should get that! So could you stop acting like a pouting teenager?!" Dean breaks out.

"... pizza guy is coming," Sam mutters.

"What?!" Dean cries out, but that is when he can hear a knock on the door. The older brother searches Sam's eyes with a mixture of anger and confusion.

"... as an aside, that is actually a pretty cool trick," Dean mutters. "But that conversation is not over yet."

He goes to the door and opens it to a brunet college student, as it seems.

"Delivery for Mr. Page?" the young man asks.

"Yeah, thanks," Dean flashes a brief smile as he takes the pizza, thrusting a few crumpled dollar bills in the man's chest. "You can keep the rest. Bye."

He shuts the door angrily, tossing the carton on the counter. Sam blinks at him now almost curiously.

"Okay, pizza man's gone, so now, back to the topic," Dean grunts. "So that's really all you're going to say to... all this? All I get to know is that for the last three years you were gone, in between you somehow ended up killing someone in a church, and since then stuck to the asylums to get rid of vengeful crazy spirits until your head was enough mush to make you stare at the ceiling humming 'Mary had a little lamb' or whatever?! That's it?!"

Sam looks at him, but says nothing. Because he can't. He can't say it. Mustn't say it. And Sam hates himself for it so much that he could throw up right there.

"Say something already!" Dean yells, but Sam can't and doesn't. He just looks at him with his suddenly large eyes.

"Sam! You have to say something! Coz I can't read minds like you can! For me to understand, you have to friggin' talk to me! Dammit!" Dean curses. "I mean... I mean... and I can't believe I'm saying this... do you even want to be here?!"

Dean stares at Sam. Sam stares at Dean. If the silence was not oppressive yet, it surely is now.

He just said that out loud, didn't he?

"... do you want to be here with me? Or did I just force you into that... God, I can't believe I'm even thinking this... but... but honestly, Sam, I can't do this here, I can't have you not talking to me and giving me any reason to believe that you don't want to be here. Because if you don't... then we have to figure out something else, but this here... that doesn't work, no," Dean mutters. "Not like that."

Sam bites his lower lip, his eyes now watery, but still the words won't come out.

"I mean, I can't force you to stay with me, but if this is supposed to work, then we have to pull on the same end of the rope, Sammy, or else this will... end in disaster. Look, you know that I care about you and that I love you, but I just... I need to know how far we can go with this. I just have to know to... make up a plan," Dean goes on, his chest burning from the inside out.

He can't believe that he is saying this. God, he shouldn't say this. What if Sammy says he doesn't want to stay?!

"So now, I ask you and you will have to answer me, Sammy. And I mean that you have to say it, okay? Do you... do you want to be here, with me? Yes or no?" Dean stammers, now on the verge of tears himself. Sam nervously opens and closes his mouth, looking at all corners of the room.

"Sam, say something. Don't just leave me hanging here, okay?" Dean demands. The younger man takes a moment, but then searches Dean's eyes.

"I... I want to be here," Sam brings out. "... with you."

He closes his eyes again, looking at the ground.

There, he said it. Said it and meant it. Still means it.

Damn!

Because he shouldn't, mustn't!

"I just... I just can't... not yet," he brings out, his voice tear-stricken.

Possibly not ever, but... who cares, right?

Sam breathes through his nostrils before he looks back at Dean, insecurity tugging at his chest. He can't read Dean, but the emotions are such a mess that even if he tried now, Sam wouldn't be able to tell.

"O, okay, that's... I don't like it, but for as long as you're... for as long as you're willing to try, we can... work this out. That's stone one and we build on it," Dean nods frantically, just utterly relieved that his world wasn't crushed all over again.

Because he can't have it crushing another time, or else he will go down along with it.

"Okay," Sam breathes.

"Okay," Dean nods. Fine, it is definitely not the good old times, but there is at least hope again, right? And even if he is not known to be overly hopeful, that just comes with the job, for as long as Sammy wants to stay with him, Dean shall be damned if he doesn't find a way to make this work.

"Okay, wow, that's... damn, but... over now, we... we should just... let's just eat," Dean brings out, nervously walking back over to the counter to get the pizza. "I'm starving."

And so the two brothers find themselves in a scene of odd familiarity, of what they used to call "family dinner". Dean steals glances at Sam, flashing a brief smirk if the younger man actually looks back. Underneath the table, however, Sam is too busy pressing his fingernails into his palm, finding the small pain all too soothing.

He hates himself for being this weak, because he said the truth.

And that even though he did anything to prevent just that from happening, but it seems to be true what Nietzsche said, who fights monsters has to be careful not to become one himself.

Sam is a selfish monster, but when he looks at Dean, all that dissolves to smoke.

Suddenly, there is a light in that abyss.

And for that one moment, Sam just wants to reflect that light instead of darkness.