Author's notes: The final chapter wherein Dean finally breaks, Sam finally gets a clue and the readers get closure (maybe).

Unholy (Part 3)

"Love that is not madness is not love."

Dean stares up at the dingy yellow ceiling of the latest motel room, only vaguely aware of the thrusts that move his body up and down against starchy sheets.

He is quickly becoming a master at the art of disconnection from reality. Sometimes he manages to make the disconnect complete. During these times he lets his mind float in a void, never allowing any one thought to stay in his head for too long.

Sometimes, when he can't achieve that state, he does what he's doing tonight, naming various monsters and the ways to kill them. And while it's not as effective as the total disconnect, it is better than being aware of what is happening within his body.

Right now he is on 'vampire'. Pulling loose words long ingrained in his memory, he recites them silently.

Stake through the heart.

Fire.

Decapitation.

He's about to move onto 'werewolf' when he feels Sam shudder and stiffen. He shifts his gaze and focuses on his brother's face above him. Sam's entire body is taut, the tendons in his neck standing out in an almost frightening way. He looks like he's in great pain and for a moment Dean is tempted to reach up and soothe it away. But then Sam moans out his name and his entire body relaxes and Dean chastises himself for being foolish.

Sam sighs contentedly, and allows his body to drop so that his full weight is almost on Dean. He nuzzles Dean's neck and gives it a quick kiss before lifting his head.

"You are so wonderful," he breathes out, sounding like he's just run a marathon.

At this, Dean places one hand on the side of Sam's face. His Sammy. He forces a smile, knowing that Sam will think it odd if he doesn't at least try to look as satisfied as he does.

Sam gives him a small peck on the lips before rolling off of him, one hand possessively on his chest as always.

"You going to take your shower now?" he asks in a slightly teasing tone.

Dean licks lips which are suddenly much too dry and whispers, "Yeah."

Whereas Dean considers himself the master of disconnecting, he sees Sam as the master of self-delusion. Sam believes what he wants to believe and sees what he wants to see. He does not see how sometimes Dean forgets himself and flinches from his touch. He does not notice how quiet Dean becomes after their lovemaking. When Dean occasionally has to run to the bathroom to be noisily sick, Sam asks him if what he ate is disagreeing with him. He sees Dean's frequent showers as a curious idiosyncracy and nothing more.

And he has long since stopped trying to return the favor and bring Dean to orgasm, choosing instead to believe that the sex is mutually satisfying for both of them.

This last is what worries Dean more than anything else. Not because he wants Sam to return the favor, in fact the thought of Sam's hands or mouth on him is almost more than he can handle, but because his brother is so far gone that his reality is no longer even recognizable.

Dean allows Sam to cuddle and kiss him briefly before he manages to extricate himself from his embrace. It is all he can do to stop himself from running to the bathroom. The need to feel clean is almost overpowering as is the need to let the mask drop and stop pretending that this is all ok.

He gives Sam a small kiss on the forehead before he goes and for a brief moment he is reminded of when he and Sam were just children. Back then Sam would not go to bed unless he got a kiss on the forehead from his big brother. It was their own private little ritual, something that their father never knew about.

He has to bite back on the sob that threatens to tear loose from his throat and moves away quickly.

Once inside the bathroom, he closes the door and stands in front of the mirror, ready to go through his usual routine. Every few days it's a different bathroom, a different mirror, but this . . . this is always the same. He stares at his reflection, his very hated reflection, and once again lets his thoughts turn dark with violence. He wonders how much it would hurt to smash his fist into it. He wonders how much it would hurt if he took the mirror's glass, dug it in at his temple and made his way down.

His breathing begins to quicken as his expression turns pained.

Why can't Sammy just see? Why can't Sammy just stop?

He raises his hand and brings it to the glass, letting his fingertips touch its smooth surface.

Why can't things be the way they were? Why can't this all just go away? Why doesn't it all just fucking go away?

Acting on impulse, he draws his hand back, curls it into a fist and brings it crashing into the mirror with as much force as he can muster.

The mirror shatters into a thousand pieces, just as his fantasies told him it would. He pulls his hand back and stares at it in awe. He is bleeding; long rivulets are blood are already snaking their way down past his wrist to touch his elbow before dropping to the floor. He looks closer, sees that there are a multitude of small gashes in his skin. Some however, are very long and deep. As he continues to stare, he realizes that bits of glass are still embedded in his flesh.

The pain hits then and he sinks to his knees from the force of it. He tries to breathe through it; finds that he can't. He glances down at the floor and realizes that there's too much blood - he must have nicked an artery. The thought of bleeding out here in this nowhere motel does not bother him in the slightest. It is the knowledge that Sam has surely heard and that he will be running in here any second that causes Dean's stomach to contract in fear.

He cannot believe that he has been so fucking stupid; that he has been so weak.

He turns his head at the unmistakable sound of Sam slamming open the door.

"Are you ok? I was calling you and . . . "

Dean angles his head and looks up at him. He tries to say Sam's name but his voice fails him and all that emerges is a stricken whisper.

Sam drops down to his knees next to him and gingerly reaches out to touch the bloody mess that is his hand. He stops short and touches Dean's face instead.

In a horrified voice, he asks, "What have you done?"

Both of them know that Sam's real question here is "Why?", and since Dean does not have a pat or easy answer to give, he merely shakes his head.

Sam makes a noise of frustration and grabs a towel from the rack, wrapping it tightly around Dean's hand. Dean whimpers at the renewed pain but says nothing.

"Keep it elevated. I'm going to call 911," Sam orders before running back to the other room.

Any other time and Dean would have protested, but since his vision is starting to go a little fuzzy and the blood is already staining the towel a bright crimson, he figures this time a hospital isn't such a bad idea.

By the time Sam comes back, Dean's world has begun to fade into black and all he can do is fall into his brother's arms gratefully.

Sam walks down the hospital's hallway in slow, measured steps. He's thinking even as he moves, his mind rapidly running through all possible options and scenarios. Every few seconds the conversation he's just had with Dean's doctor interrupts his thoughts and replays itself in his head. He is so intent on all of this that he almost misses the door to his brother's room. He stops abruptly, placing his hand on the door handle, then hesitates. A few moments ago he had been desperate to get back to Dean; now he's not at all sure that he can go inside. He's not sure that he can face his brother after what he's done.

A questioning look from a nurse walking by snaps him out of his indecision. He knows he has to go inside. Dean is expecting him. He takes a deep breath and steels himself before opening the door and entering.

He finds Dean in the exact same position as before - on his back in the uncomfortable hospital bed, one hand sporting an IV and a pulse ox while the other is wrapped almost mummy-like in bandages. He looks pale and worn and tired and the circles under his eyes are so dark they resemble bruises.

It is all too eerily reminiscent of Dean's last hospital stay . . . except that this time it is he himself who has put his brother here. The urge to run away from all of this is strong, but Sam knows he cannot give in to it. He has to stay. He owes Dean at least that much.

He softly says, "Hey," before grabbing the room's sole chair and sitting down next to the bed.

Dean looks at him, his eyes widening just a little. To anyone else Dean would see calm, but Sam knows his brother well enough to know that he is quite agitated.

"Sam. They're telling me that they're going to keep me here. For three days. For a psych evaluation. But they can't do that, right? Not if I don't want to stay?"

Sam nods and places his hand gently on Dean's.

"Yeah, I know. I just got back from talking to your doctor and the hospital's psychiatrist."

"But . . . "

"They can keep you here if they can show that you're a danger to others or to yourself."

"But I'm not."

"Dean, you put your fist completely through a mirror. You punched out the back. Do you have any idea how lucky you are that you didn't slice any tendons or sever a nerve?"

For a moment, Dean looks as though he's about to argue but realizes that it would be pointless. "Well then, you've gotta help me bust out of here, Sammy. It can't be that hard. It's not like there's security to keep people in here."

"Dean, I can't do that."

"Why not?"

Sam takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. What he's about to do is not going to be easy - for either of them. He wants to follow Dean's request and take him away from here, lay him down on a soft bed and hold him until he's healed. But he can't. He can't hurt his brother anymore. God help him; he's been doing it for months now, blinding himself to Dean's pain.

But he has made up his mind. It is ending here.

It has to.

"I don't think staying here is a bad idea, Dean."

"Sam, they want to keep me here like some kind of prisoner while they head-shrink me. How can that be a good thing?"

"I think it would be good if you talked to someone about what happened to you. I think these people can help you."

"What are you talking about? Nothing happened to me. I was tired and upset about the hunt. It's no big deal."

"You smashed your own reflection in the mirror."

"It was an accident, Sam. I just meant to hit it."

Sam sighs. "You don't have to lie to me, Dean. Not anymore. Please."

"Come on! Guys do stuff like that all the time. They get upset. They hit things."

"Dean . . . "

"What, Sam? What? What do you want me to say?"

Sam lets his head drop as he tries to gather his thoughts. He knew this was going to be hard, just as he knew Dean would fight what he was saying every step of the way, he just didn't think it would be this hard.

He lifts his head back up, the tears already sliding down his face. "I am so sorry."

"Sam . . . "

"All this time, I honestly believed that you were ok with this. All this time I never realized what it was doing to you."

"Please don't, Sam."

"Why, Dean? Why would you let me make . . . have sex with you if you weren't ok?"

Dean stares down at the blanket that covers him as if fascinated by it. "You were happy. I liked seeing you happy."

"Oh, God."

The raw agony in Sam's voice brings Dean's head back up. "Sam, it's ok."

But Dean is wrong. It is not ok. How can it be? He is a monster. He is worse than anything they've ever hunted. And even now, even after everything he's done, Dean is still trying to help him, trying to make things better for him.

But he does not want any kind of absolution. He does not deserve it.

"When you were four, Dad put me in your arms and told you to take me," Sam says. "And you haven't let go since then, have you? Even when you've been dying inside."

That earns him a scowl. "Stop being so melodramatic, Sam!"

"I'm not. That's just it. I'm not. You are always taking care of me. Even at your own expense. Always."

"That's my job, Sammy."

Sam sniffs and straightens, wiping the tears away with the back of his hand. "Well, not anymore, it isn't. You're going to take care of yourself for once. You let me worry about me."

"What do you mean?"

"You're going to stay here. You're going to talk to the psychiatrist. You're going to tell him the truth. And you're going to let him help you."

"I am, huh?"

"Yes."

"And what are you going to be doing all this time?"

"I'm not sure. I need to go somewhere and think some things through. Think about what the hell's wrong with me that I did this to you."

"Stop saying that! You didn't do anything to me. I was there too, you know. I'm an adult."

Those words conjure up an image of Dean naked and spread underneath him. Sam turns from him with a sickened groan. God, what was wrong with him? To even now have these sick thoughts . . .

He really is a monster. There is no other conclusion that he can possibly draw.

"Sam?"

"I need time. I can't be around you, Dean. Not now. Just do what I'm asking, please."

"But I don't need . . . "

"Please! Just do this! For once, don't argue!" He can't help but to shout the entreaty. He has to make Dean understand.

"Fine. Fine, Sam. But . . . "

"But what?"

"You'll come back for me right? After three days? You'll come back?"

The uncertainty, the downright fear in Dean's voice causes Sam's heart to constrict painfully. He musters a smile for his brother, trying to make it reassuring and confident. "Of course I will."

The lie rolls off his tongue so easily that Sam is sure Dean will see right through it. But he merely looks relieved. And very tired.

"You're exhausted. Get some sleep."

Dean nods. "I am pretty wiped."

"Go to sleep. I'll be right here til you do."

"And when I wake up?"

Sam leans forward and runs his fingers through Dean's hair. "They'll transfer you to the psych ward and I'll be gone."

"But you'll be back." This time there is no uncertainty whatsoever in Dean's voice.

"Yes," Sam says.

"In three days."

"In three days," Sam echoes.

Dean smiles slightly and closes his eyes.

"I love you, Sammy. Don't be mad," he mutters as sleep begins to overtake him.

Sam kisses his forehead and whispers, "Never."

Dean falls asleep within a matter of minutes. True to his word, Sam waits until he is completely under before he leaves.

Three days. He has three days to purge himself of the worst kind of unholy thoughts and desires. And if he can't . . .

The thought causes him to falter in mid-step. If he can't, then he'll just have to take a cue from dear old dad and disappear.

Either way he won't hurt Dean again. Ever.

One of the nurses flashes a smile at him as he walks by their station. "We'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Winchester?"

He returns the smile. "Of course you will."