Title: Nemesis of the Mind

Summary: In an attempt to save Dean from Michael, Sam delves into Dean's mind. Things don't quite go as expected. Season 14. Hurt/Comfort.

Warning: Spoilers up to and including season 14. Rated T for graphic descriptions of violence, blood loos and injury. Mentions of difficult upbringing and child neglect/trauma. Bad language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the boys or the show.

Dean's head wasn't just a mess, it was a freaking disaster zone.

Sam waded through the ocean of objects littering the floor of what appeared to be a motel room. He couldn't see even a square centimeter of the doubtlessly hideous carpet beneath all the crap that lay around. Empty take-away boxes were stacked between photo albums, wood-crafted weapons that looked as though they were made by a preschooler lined the shelves on the wall, witch-killing bullets and canned motor oil were blocking Sam's path as he carefully picked his way across the room, trying not to step on anything.

"Dean?" Sam called out fruitlessly.

There was a rather high likelihood of Michael suppressing Sam's presence from Dean's awareness. After all, the archangel had bragged about how deeply he had stashed Dean away in the depths of his mind. Sam could only imagine what that must have felt like for Dean being completely shut off from his senses, trapped in his own body like he could scream his own lungs out until they disintegrated into a bloody pulp and nobody in his immediate vicinity would bat an eyelash.

"Dean!" Sam's voice rose in volume as a fierce determination settled in his heart. He was going to get his brother back, no matter what. "DEAN! Can you hear me?"

When there was no answer, Sam took a moment to give the room another swipe of his eyes. It looked as though a drunken cyclone had trampled all over the place, strewing clothes and food around in a wild frenzy. A few personal belongings were the only clue that this chaotic mess was not the work of some supernatural entity but a perfectly upsetting representation of his older brother's mind; their dad's leather jacket, neatly folded and placed almost provocatively in the center of the bed, a dog-eared sticker with Dean's bold-lettered handwriting on the foot of the bed, a picture of him and his mom on the nightstand next to the bed, a signed poster of Gunner Lawless on the wall, a baseball that looked a whole lot like the one Bobby had given Dean for his thirteenth birthday, the keys to the Impala, loyally sitting on the window frame as though they were only waiting to get picked up by their lawful owner. Sam felt something get crushed beneath his boots and looked down to find an iPod with a playlist of all of Dean's favorite rock classics, the volume turned up high enough to blare through the tiny ear buds. Besides the stacks of journals and library books and police reports, half-emptied bottles of beer and whiskey had started to grow their own hydroculture.

Sam felt his brother's presence so clearly, it was hard to deny that this was something only his big brother could have conjured up. There were Led Zeppelin posters on the wall. Die Hard was playing on the rickety motel TV and everyone on screen, including Hans Gruber, looked like they'd spent way too long in a basement somewhere, far away from any and all sunlight.

Sam ran a reverent hand over the silver ring that rested on the nightstand. A bracelet made of several black leather chords and a second bracelet with tiny skulls carved out of wood was resting next to it. The silver ring was for convenience, to detect Shifters, Ghouls or Vamps through something as basic as a simple handshake. The bracelets were Mayan handicraft, meant to protect the person wearing them. Dean had picked them wisely, each one serving a purpose.

Photographs of their mom and dad lined the wall, back from when they were younger. Bobby's cap sat on the small kitchen table in the far corner of the room, still bloodied from where Dick Roman's bullet had torn through the fabric and Sam's throat tightened uncomfortably at the sight.

There were several boxes in different sizes on the floor, each one of them labeled in Dean's neat handwriting. Sam's heart skipped a beat when his eyes fell onto the biggest box in the room. It looked heavier than the others and it had rusty chains wrapped around it, secured and held firmly in place by a padlock. Beneath the chains, the word 'DAD' name was spelled out in bold black letters. There was a prickly sensation in the back of Sam's throat.

His fingers itched to dig out a lock pick, but he decided not to give in to his curiosity. The fact that his older brother quite literally kept a whole part of their family locked away in metal chains in his own mind said a whole lot about how much baggage Dean was still carrying around on a day-to-day basis, but Sam wouldn't betray his brother's trust like that. Besides, snooping around in Dean's private issues wasn't what Sam had come for.

Another box called 'Lisa and Ben' sat right next to the one labeled 'Dad' and it was open when Sam peeked inside. It contained a set of golf clubs, a barbecue grill and an English paper from Ben about why Dean was 'someone who inspires you'. A heavy weight pressed down on Sam's chest. He read the first paragraph of Ben's worshipful words, feeling a slight sting in his eyes and then lowered it back down before carefully placing the lid back onto the box. Dean had told him to never bring up their names again and Sam had promised he wouldn't. Some things were better not brought up between them and this was just one of these things.

Taking a cursory glance around the room, Sam felt a bitter sting of pain at the realization that there were more boxes labeled "Cas" and "Jack" but there was no box with his name on it. All Sam could see around him were mementos of their dad, their mom, Bobby, Jack, Cas and the few friends they had left. The crown from the battle of Moondoor was hanging from the faded motel wallpaper. And Sam even spotted that stupid sock Garth had used as a finger-puppet in the mess on the floor. But there was nothing even remotely related to Sam.

Sam wasn't sure what he had expected. It was perfectly normal for a grown up man in his forties to have different thing on his mind than his brother. But Sam had thought there would be at least something. Anything.

Maybe Dean had finally taken Sam's advice and adopted a more independent lifestyle of his own. That was good, right? Healthy.

These days Dean had other people to focus on. He had Cas to have a beer with and he had Jack to worry and fret over. Their mom was back and the bunker was filled with hunters all the time, providing a safe haven for their kind and an open ear for anything related to the job. Sometimes Sam didn't see Dean for days at a time, even for a whole week if they decided to join different hunts.

But still.

"Seriously?" Sam huffed out. "Not even one damn thing?"

Sam hated himself for how tight his throat suddenly felt.

He discarded the boxes labeled "Charlie" and "Jo" in order to make a hurried beeline for the door.

Rattling on the knob, Sam slammed a flat palm against the chipped wood in anger when it didn't open. "Dean, can you hear me? You gotta listen to me, wherever you are—" Sam pressed his forehead against the door, closing his eyes in frustration. "We got him, Dean. We got Michael. But you gotta work with us here and dig yourself back out."

More silence and Sam decided that enough was enough. With a growl, he took two steps back and started forward, slamming his shoulder hard against the motel room door. Apart from the sharp pain shooting up his arm and neck, the door didn't budge. It didn't even rattle. Probably because it wasn't a real door. It wasn't even a real room. This was all just a representation of Dean's mind.

Sam rattled on the doorknob one more time and then it suddenly 'clicked' open, giving way as though it hadn't been locked just a second ago. Sam's heart started hammering a little faster in his chest as the door swung open with a rusty screech. He stepped forward and found himself in a bar.

The bar looked and smelled just like the Roadhouse. A dozen conversations dominated the air all of them, competing with the loud rock music that blared through the stereo. Through the colored window glass, the sallow light of the street-lamps trickled in. The air was filled with the scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke. A few patrons sat at the bar, but it was the figure standing behind the counter that had Sam frozen in place.

"Dean," Sam sighe, relief hittig him so hard he got dizzy from it for a moment. "Thank god, you're okay."

The smoke twisted around Dean's head like a halo, forming curls in the gloom, illuminated only by the age-speckled bar lights. Dean turned his head slowly to his right while scrubbing the glass of the chiller cabinet he'd been busy re-stuffing with beer. He eyed Sam wearily, giving him a skeptical once over. "We know each other?"

Sam's heart slowly sank in his chest.

"If this is some sort of joke, it's not funny." Sam crossed over to the bar in a no-nonsense matter. "We need to get you out of here, alright?"

He reached out without thinking, wrapping his strong fingers around Dean's wrist. But Dean yanked his arm out of Sam's grasp as if he'd been burned by the touch, expression broody. "Look, man, I don't know what the hell your deal is, but I'm not whoever you're looking for."

"But—"

"Order something or get lost." Dean slung the towel over his shoulder and leaned forward until he was at eye level with Sam, a dangerous glint in his moss green eyes. "And if you touch me again, I'll break your damn hand. Are we clear?"

"Crystal." Sam swallowed, having never been on the receiving end of Dean's death glare before. Combined with a low, throaty growl and the fact that Dean was indeed very capable of breaking someone's arm, Sam felt the warning in his brother's tone and lifted his hands in surrender. He pursed his lips to try and hide his frustration before taking a seat at the bar. "Alright. Sorry. I must have confused you with someone I knew... I, uh—" Sam cleared his throat. "Can I get a beer?"

Dean gave him a weary glare before slowly turning back to his counter and grabbing one of the empty beer glasses from the shelf. "You get whammied by a spell or something?" Dean dumped the freshly tapped beer down in front of Sam's nose. "Witches, man," he whistled. "They can make you forget your own name if they want to."

Sam closed his hand around the damp beer glass. "Yeah, no, I didn't. I don't… you just reminded me of someone."

"You serve?" Dean asked after a beat of silence, a flicker of empathy in his gaze.

"You mean in the army?" Sam asked, shaking his head. "It's not PTSD if that's what you're asking." Sam sighed, sending a quick glance around the bar. What the hell was he doing? Michael had clearly messed with Dean's memory and created this carefully constructed scenario to keep Dean from putting up a fight. Dean probably thought this was his real life and didn't even know he was trapped in his own body like a prisoner. This had to stop. Sam had to snap him out of it.

He shoved his beer aside and got up from his seat. "Dean, listen to me. This is gonna sound crazy, but—" Sam waved his hand around, gesturing at the bar. "None of this is real. Michael is possessing your body as we speak and this whole place is just an illusion to keep you docile."

Dean snorted out a laugh and snatched the full beer from the counter. He dumped it in the sink and shook his head in disbelief, huffing out a breath of air. "Yeah, alright. You're definitely cut off for tonight. Whatever pills you're popping, they're gonna be the death of you." Then, under his breath, Dean muttered: "Should have known the kid was a hippie, with hair like that."

"Dean…" Sam whispered pleadingly. "It's me."

Dean just continued to stare at him blankly.

"I'm your brother," Sam's voice wavered. Never in his whole life would he have thought that he'd be in a situation where Dean wouldn't even recognize him, much less know they were related. "It's Sam."

The slightly amused smile vanished from Dean's lips, a flicker of pity in his eyes. He cast a fleeting glance over at the other patrons before stepping out from behind the bar and walking over to grab Sam by his upper arm. "Alright, come on, buddy. Time to get going."

Dean was going to throw him out. As soon as the realization sank in, Sam started struggling in his brother's firm hold. "No, wait. Dean, stop it! Just stop for a second and listen to me! Dean, please–" Sam yanked himself out of his brother's hold. He was breathing heavily then, his nostrils flaring as he faced-off with Dean. "You were born January 24th, 1979 in Lawrence, Kansas. Your parents' names were John and Mary Winchester."

Dean pointed a finger at Sam's face in warning. "Alright, that does it. I don't know who's palm you greased to get that info, but I've had it up to here with your game."

"This isn't a game, Dean."

"Get out of my bar or I'll—"

"You used to sing me songs when I was little." Sam interrupted harshly. His eyes were huge and wide, the classic puppy-dog-look as Dean had always labeled it. "Your favorite song is Led Zeppelin's 'Ramble On'. You like your cheeseburgers with bacon and extra onions. You drink your coffee black, without sugar."

Dean's expression fell and Sam barged on. "You were four when mom died and you didn't speak for months afterward. Dad dragged you from one therapist to the next but you wouldn't start talking until I said my first word. You wanna guess what my first word was, Dean?"

Dean's face was pale and his mouth was hanging slightly open. Sam could see the cogs in his brain turning, could see the turmoil of emotions in his stormy green eyes. Then his eyes suddenly narrowed and a dark storm cloud grew on his face. "How do you—"

"You wanted to become a firefighter," Sam broke him off again. "But not me, Dean. You wanna know what I wanted to become when I was grown up?" Sam lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug, a sad little smile tugging on his lips. "I just wanted to be like my big brother."

Dean was just staring at him at this point, clearly at a loss for words.

"You call me 'Sammy'," Sam went on, voice growing rough as it grated his vocal cords. "Not as much as you used to, but you still do, sometimes, when the mood strikes you. You take care of me because dad used to tell you to watch out for me when we were little." Sam scrubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to rein in the emotions. God, the picture he must make, standing there bawling about his freaking eyes out over a nickname. But Dean had forgotten Sam even existed. And Sam wasn't above begging to get his brother to remember. "Dean, please. You have to trust me on this. Even if you don't believe, just trust me enough to get you out of here and we can figure out the rest."

Dean hesitated, but then his frown slowly melted from his features. "I got no idea where you got all of this from, but that does sound like me."

"That's because I know you," Sam said, twisting the doorknob that led out of the bar. "Better than anyone."

The door fell open and as soon as they both stepped through it, their surroundings morphing into what looked like Bobby's house in Sioux Falls.

They crossed over the threshold to Bobby's library, the smoke and liquor infested air giving way to the dusty smell of old parchment and linen. The house was just as Sam had last seen it, the tables and Bobby's favorite chair lay stagnant, dusty, yet they managed to hold the weight of so many shared memories. Spiders scurried away as Sam stepped into the further inside, sending a glance over his shoulder to see if Dean was still there.

It took Sam a second to catch on with it, but then he noticed something odd. Along the walls of Bobby's house, covering every available inch of the fading wallpaper, were Sam's stick-figure drawings, his macaroni pictures and just about every English paper or math test Sam had ever gotten an A on. The tin soldiers they had stuck into the ashtray of the Impala were lined up on the window sill and the whole DVD collection of The 3 Stooges was sitting on Bobby's desk along with a peanut butter and banana sandwich. Sam's favorite snacks were strewn across the couch along with a small satin box that Sam vaguely remembered being the one that held the ring he'd bought for Jessica a whole lifetime ago. The crooked looking sword Sam carved out of wood in handicraft class at secondary school and then given Dean for his birthday was lying on the couch table next to Sam's money paper clip and a package of Nair. An old hoodie, Sam had borrowed Dean and never gotten back rested on the armrest of Bobby's leather chair. A few Christmas presents from the gas station, were wrapped in newspaper and strewn across the floor. And then there was a large S.W. next to a D.W. carved into the wooden floorboards of Bobby's living room.

Dean crouched down with a soft crack of his joints to run his calloused fingers over the carvings of their initials in the floor.

"Sam," Dean said as if he was trying the name for the very first time. He looked around, soaking up the memories, his reverent gaze lingering on each and every object. Then he met Sam's eyes and straightened up again, his features lit up with a warmth that had been missing before. He stepped closer to Sam and then placed his hand on the junction between his neck and shoulder, squeezing tightly.

"Dean?" Sam barely dared to ask. "Do you…"

"I remember," Dean confirmed and Sam released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Before he knew what he was doing, he surged forward, wrapping his arms around Dean's back. Dean returned the embrace, patting Sam's shoulder lightly and not letting go. "Hiya, Sammy."

Sam pulled back way too soon, growing serious again. "Dean, we have to find Cas so he can zap us back. We've already lost so much time and if Michael—"

"SAM!" a voice suddenly called out and both their heads jerked around to see Cas storming through the main entrance of Bobby's house.

"Speak of the devil," Dean grinned, but his smile dropped like a lead weight upon noticing the distraught expression on the angel's face. Castiel crossed the distance toward them in a few hurried steps, his trench coat billowing behind him like a storm cloud. He skittered to a halt before them, eyes wide and intense. "We need to leave, now. I can sense Michael regaining his power."

Cas lifted two fingers to each of their heads and blinding white light filled the room, ears ringing with the force of the angel grace as it swept them off their feet.

When he came back to his senses, Sam swayed on his feet, propping up his arms on the library table as he tried to catch his breath from the ride. Sam looked up to where Dean was sitting opposite of him. "Dean? Are you…" Sam broke himself off when his brother's eyes found his own.

There was a blue tint in his brother's gaze and Sam's blood ran cold.

Nononono... it couldn't be.

Dean was supposed to be back in control.

Sam's breath caught in his throat as the full gravity of the situation sank in. They hadn't made it. Their plan hadn't worked and Dean was still trapped inside of Michael.

Castiel's face twisted into a worried frown. "Is he—"

"Oh, trust me. He's in here." Michael's lips curled into a smirk, malicious glee lining his features. He must have used his angelic powers to somehow keep Dean from resurfacing. This whole time, he must have known that Castiel's grace wouldn't be strong enough to bring Dean back to the surface. He had toyed with them like a cat with a bunch of helpless mice. "This was all fun when it started, but I believe I'll have to tend to more urgent matters. So if you gentlemen will excuse me…"

"You're not going anywhere," Sam hissed, pulling the angel blade from the waistband of his jeans and pointing the tip threateningly at the archangel.

Michael just smirked up at him in return, raising an eyebrow in amused disbelief.

"You know the blade kills the vessel, don't you Sammy?" Michael asked. Sam just shook his head, heart drumming loudly speed in his chest. The blade was shaking in his grasp and he knew he probably wasn't intimidating anyone at the moment, least of all a celestial being of Michael's rank and power.

Michael slowly stood up from his seat and then his eyes started shining in a bright, sapphire blue that became stronger and stronger by the second. With a deep, guttural growl, he yanked his arms apart and just like that, the chains that had kept his hands shackled together snapped in half.

"No!" Jack yelled from somewhere behind Cas. The teen started forward, probably trying to stop Michael from leaving, but Cas held him back. "Jack, don't!" Cas grabbed two fistfuls of Jack's shirt and managed to restrain him. "He's too strong. He'll kill you."

"Not today," Michael said and with a swipe of his hand, Cas and Jack were both flung across the room, hitting the walls of the adjacent map room with a harsh grunt.

"JACK!" Sam started forward to see if they were alright, but Michael stepped in his path, staring him down with a dangerous glint in his icy glare.

"Did you really think it was going to be that easy, Sam?"

Snapping his fingers, the angel blade vanished from Sam's hold. Defenseless, he stumbled back as Michael stepped closer, backing himself against the book-shelf-lined walls of the bunker's library until there was nowhere for him to go. The archangel was livid beneath all that fake calm, Dean's body was shaking with the magnitude of his power, grace leaking through his eyes and brimming from his skin like x-rays. "Did you think I was just going to let you waltz in there and snatch him away beneath my nose?"

Michael grabbed him by the lapels of his flannel, yanking him close and there was a parallel somewhere there, but Sam was too scared to acknowledge that. "I was with you in Stull Cemetery, remember, Sam? I was there to see my brother succumb to the very human power he had always so recklessly underestimated and I swore to myself that I was never going to make that same mistake."

The puzzle pieces clicked into place in Sam's head. "You made him forget about me."

"I was doing him a favor. All that sentimental crap in your head, all those memories of gap-toothed grins and noodle pictures and marathon movie nights in some crappy no-name motel room. You are a liability to him, Samuel. He'd be so much better off without you."

With a growl, Sam raised his fist in an attempt to attack, but Michael blocked the punch and countered it with a blow of his own. His fist impacted with the force of a speed train, blinding pain flaring up behind his eyes as he grunted in shock. Sam went down, mouth bloodied and his fearsome rage quelling in his chest as he scrabled to his hands and knees. Lightning fast, Sam spun around, swinging out his foot to take Michael's legs out from under him. The archangel crashed to the ground and for a second they both rolled around on the library floor, throwing punches and using elbows and knees in a desperate attempt to subdue one another.

In a normal fight between Dean and him, the odds would have been equal, but this wasn't Dean and Michael was quick to gain the upper hand.

"He wouldn't stop fighting me, not even the second time I possessed him," the archangel seethed. "He was too attached to Castiel and that pitiful abomination you refer to as Jack. But most of all… most of all he was attached to you." Michael grabbed the collar of Sam's flannel and yanked him close enough to stare straight into his only opened eye. "So I took all his memories and made him forget about you. I gave him a bar and a job and a wife to keep him distracted.

Michael roughly grabbed Sam's chin, fingers digging into blood-smeared cheeks. "It was meant to put him in place, make this easier on him. We could have been brilliant together! But no. He still chose to defy me the second you showed up."

He gripped Sam's throat in a stranglehold. A sensation like fire burned through Sam's neck from the touch, Michael's magic searing his exposed flesh. Sam cried out in pain and his eyes flicking over to the mapping room in frantic search for Cas and Jack.

Sam's eyes stung with tears as he shook his head, weakly clawing at the hands that dug into his throat, trying to free himself from Michael's powerful grasp.

"And now…" Michael said. "Now I will have to beat you until every single bone in your body is broken. Now I'll make him listen to every broken sound you make. To every last shaky breath, you suck into your lungs, to every time you say his name, trying to make him stop. And in that last second, when your eyes close and your body stops struggling, I'm going to allow him to snap back into his body, feeling every last bit of what he did to the brother he swore to protect."

Michael's hands released his throat and fisted the fabric of Sam's V-neck, lifting him forward. Sam was slack from the beating he had taken, his unfocused eyes rolling around listlessly until they caught Michael's fury-filled gaze.

"You made him pathetic. You made him weak. He would have been perfect - strong and confident and capable- if it weren't for you, Samuel. Because, you see, for some utterly incomprehensible reason, Dean values your life about his own." Michael's hand ran through Sam's long hair, grabbing a fistful and violently jerking his head back as he leaned in to whisper into his ear. "And for that, I am going to take you apart, Sam. I am going to take every organ you possess, every electrical impulse, every last molecule and flay it to NOTHING. I will annihilate you until there's no sign you ever even existed and I will make sure that big brother gets a first-row seat to the show."

Sam's ears were ringing with the sound of the blood rushing through his body. He was in so much pain, he could barely even breathe or think, but he gathered enough strength to send Michael a glare that was pure hatred. "Go ahead."

There was a glimmer of something in the angel's eyes, then. Maybe surprise or derision. Sam didn't care to find out before Michael roughly shoved him down against the cement. Sam's vision whited out for a second, like a bomb going off and nuking his conscience. Suddenly it was harder to breathe and Sam's heavy-lidded gaze dragged around before settling on the ceiling. His eyes prickled like they were filled with sand. The cool breeze was cold against the drying blood on his face, a trickle of warmth was chasing down his cheeks and catching at the corner of his lips. He focused on a crack in the ceiling and imagined Dean - his Dean - looking down at him from above - could feel the phantom imprint of Dean's warm hand squeezing his neck in a last goodbye.

He was numb when Michael kicked him in the chest when he felt his ribs breaking and giving in to the fierce blows raining down on him, adding a sharp agony to his already aching body. He felt numb when hands wrapped around his throat, dragging him first up and then slamming his aching body back to the hard ground, charring the broken bones in his body. He struggled and tried to curl into a ball to protect himself from more blows as pain radiated up from his spine. And then he saw it flashing in the corner of his eyes– the angel blade had reappeared, suddenly within reach again.

Bloody hands scrambled for purchase, one eye completely swollen shut as he squinted at the discarded weapon, sweat and tears blurring his gaze. His fingers somehow managed to wrap around the cool metal and that was it- this was going to be the end of Michael. But it was going to be the end of Dean, too. The end of them.

And Sam couldn't.

He couldn't.

Back at Stull Cemetery, Dean hadn't fought Lucifer. He had simply taken the blows and repeated one thing like a mantra. 'I won't leave. I'm here. It's okay.' It had been Dean's willingness to die for him and the trust that had allowed Sam to gain back control.

"You know, Sam, I'm inclined to believe my brother was right about your race," Michael said with a glint of madness in his frantic gaze. "You are pathetic, useless imbeciles, weakened by the very same thing you take so much pride in." Michael's face twisted with disgust. "Love."

"You're wrong," Sam spat out and deliberately uncurled his fingers from around the blade. It had taken the tin soldiers back then, and the light reflecting on the Impala's hood, to catch Sam off guard, to delve him into a flood of memories, a whole lifetime of brotherhood and companionship passing before his eyes. Sam managed to dig his hand into his jeans pocket and produced a tiny horned penchant with his hand. A penchant he had given to his brother almost thirty years ago. The amulet Dean had worn throughout half of his life and then carelessly discarded before it had been returned back into his possession. Sam had found it dangling in the center of Bobby's living room earlier, the fading sunlight that filtered in through the dust-smeared windows catching on the little horns. Dean had not forgotten. Dean had kept it there, polished and visible to anyone who trespassed that particular corner of his mind. And Sam hadn't know why, but he had curled his fingers around the amulet and taken it with him, just in case. Now he held it up in the dull shine of the library lamps, fingers bloodied and shaky as he caught Dean's gaze with a plea in his own eyes.

"You're wrong, Michael," he choked, words pushing against the agony in his chest. "It's love that makes us strong."

He closed his eyes, clutching the penchant tightly with his fingers, steeling himself for a pain that never came, a darkness that never descended.

Peaking up at his opponent, Sam so a myriad of emotions passing through Dean's features. His fist was still lifted in the air halfway through punching him in the face, but the blow never came when Dean's eyes filled with suspicious wetness, his breath catching in his throat as his body started shaking. His eyes were transfixed on the amulet and Sam didn't dare to breathe.

"I'm here, Dean," Sam whispered. "I know you can fight this. I know you can."

Dean's whole expression fell, his eyelashes fluttered, a natural flush returned to his cheeks and then the arm he'd pulled back in anger suddenly came down again in a non-threatening.

He swayed a bit and then his gaze was back to normal, concern and guilt swimming in his moss green pools as he glanced down at his trembling, blood-coated hand.

"Dean?" Sam dared to ask, hopefulness making his voice waver.

Dean's hand found his way on top of Sam's where he was still clutching the horned amulet, trapping the tiny trinket between them as he tangled their fingers together.

"I got him, Sammy."

Sam closed his eyes to the sound of Dean's voice and the feel of Dean's warm palm against his own.

He didn't know what lay ahead of them but it didn't matter as long as Dean was there, fighting next to him, every step of the way.

The End.

a/n: I really miss the brotherly interaction this year, so I had to write this as a way of self-therapy. I sick and tired of watching Sam and Dean as Jack's 'fathers' or Cas' friends or Mary's sons. I wanna see them hunt together, talk to each other, care for each other, worry about each other. That's all I'm asking for. But I guess that's what fanfic's for these days ;) Please take a second to share your thoughts with me! Reviews make me happy :)) Much love!