This is a reversal of the 'Asylum' episode. What would have happened had Dean been possessed instead of Sam? Sometimes, timing makes a big difference. I just wanted to see how it might play out.

To be followed by a similar reversal of 'Faith.'

Merry Christmas, Faye!

I don't own Supernatural. Reviews welcomed.

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The Other Foot

Sam pounded down the dank, decrepit corridors of the South Wing of the Roosevelt Asylum. Dean had called him, telling him he was down in the basement and that something was down there with him. He double-checked his shotgun as he began descending the stairs, but he was doing it on reflex only. His mind was focused on only one thing. Dean.

Please be okay... please be okay... please be okay...

Emerging on the basement level, he raised his weapon and moved slowly out into the dark hallway leading to the boiler room.

"Dean!"

No answer. He had to suppress another surge of panic.

"DEAN!"

His own echoes were the only response. Silently, he crept forward, surreptitiously checking the doors along the fire and water stained wall. Not that stealth necessarily helped when stalking ghosts, but old habits died hard. He winced at the thought...dying in any way, hard or soft, was a bad thing to be thinking about right now.

He came up to the large double doors that led to the boiler room. Hanging back, he peered in through the Plexiglas windows. It was hard to see through the dirt and grime, but he could tell that no one was inside. Just to be sure, he nudged the door open with the muzzle of the shotgun. He scanned the floor and walls, seeing nothing and no other ways out of the place. He decided to enter, just to triple check. Something felt "off" about the room.

A clanking noise at the other end of the hall caught his attention before he stepped through. He pulled back, guiding the door closed without making a sound. He moved towards the noise. It seemed to be coming from the other stairwell. Maybe Dean had kept moving, and was back upstairs. He kept his gun ready, and opened the door to the second stairway.

Come on Dean...hide and seek time is over.

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Dean made his way quietly towards the front doors. He had found Ellicott's log and wanted to get Sam before looking for Ellicott's hidden operating room. He just hoped that Sam had gotten the kids out safely. He rounded the corner---and ducked back instinctively as the muzzle of a shotgun flashed just ten feet in front of him. Rock salt pelted the wall in front of him, chipping the already flaking paint. He slid down the wall, covering his face with his arms.

"Dammit! Don't shoot! It's me!" he yelled.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Cat yelled back, sounding both frightened and embarrassed.

"Sonnuva…" Dean climbed to his feet and stumbled around the corner with a bewildered expression, "what are you still doin' here? Where's Sam?"

Gavin looked at him like he was crazy, "He went to the basement…you called him."

Dean frowned, "I didn't call him." What the hell---

"He cell phone rang," Cat chimed in, "he said it was you."

Crap…. From what he'd found, Ellicott's little chamber of horrors was in the basement.

"Basement, huh? Alright, watch yourselves," Dean started back towards the hall, "and watch out for me!"

He pulled the clip out of his handgun and pocketed it. He wasn't sure why, but he was getting a bad feeling about this place. His hunting instincts were screaming at him that it was all wrong. Unloading the deadly weapon before heading downstairs just felt right to him. He trusted his instincts.

Damn teenagers, he griped silently, like they've never seen a horror movie before…always snooping around haunted-ass places like this…. What are they even still doing here? I told Sam to get them out of the way!

He moved quickly and quietly down the hallway. He wasn't sure if stealth really mattered that much when dealing with angry spirits, but dad's Marine-style training was hard to shake. It had its uses. He descended the stairs two at a time, keeping his eyes peeled for anything that might point to where Sam had gone.

Jesus, had Sam forgotten everything he'd learned as a kid? He should know that spirits can manipulate thoughts and mimic voices. He should have been more careful and not trusted any old phone conversation in this shit-hole. Another, quieter, voice reminded him that Sam had probably come down here to save his brother's ass, not on a stroll. But Dean's annoyance silenced that voice. Sam was so keen on being a 'normal' guy, that he had gotten sloppy and let his hunting skills get soft.

Wouldn't be like that if he'd stayed home with us. With me. But no, he had to go off and be Mr. Abercrombie & Fitch. Play school with a bunch of preppy know-nothings. Like nothing I ever did for him mattered...

Dean shook off the disgruntled thoughts. He needed to be clear-headed if he was going to find his brother in this maze of rooms and hallways. Besides, if he was honest with himself, Sam didn't deserve to have those thoughts directed at him anyway.

Slowly making his way down the hall, he chanced calling out, "Sammy? Sam, you down here?" Nothing answered. He called out Sam's name a couple of more times. Still nothing. Passing by a set of rusted doors marked "Boiler Room" and "Biological Hazard," he stopped and doubled back. The air was colder in this area. That usually meant trouble was nearby.

Seeing nothing through the windows, he nudged the door open a little further with the muzzle of his shotgun and stepped inside.

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Sam sprinted back towards the front doors, wanting to see if Dean had doubled back past him. This place is a freaking maze….

He skidded around the corner and into the small foyer where he'd left Gavin and Cat. He stopped cold when he found himself on the business end of one of their shotguns. He extended his arms in an attempt to look less threatening.

"Whoa! Hey, it's me, Sam!"

Cat cocked her head with apparent confusion, and slowly lowered the gun, "Uh…what the hell's happening here? Dean just went looking for you."

"Dean? He was here? When?"

"A little while ago, after you went looking for him," Gavin offered shakily.

Cursing under his breath, Sam pulled out his cell and dialed Dean's number. The phone had no signal. Of course…what perfect timing…. He was really starting to hate this place. He silently cursed their Dad for sending them here in the first place. Sometimes I don't know if I want to find him or kill him….

Pocketing the useless phone, he looked back at the two terrified teens, "Okay. Look…I'm going back to see if I can find Dean…stay here."

Cat snorted, "Where else would we go?"

Sam frowned, but couldn't really argue with her attitude, he was starting to feel the same way, he started off and called over his shoulder, "And if Dean comes back, keep him here with you."

He jogged back down the musty halls, hoping to find Dean before his elder brother went downstairs. Something about that area was bugging him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He saw nothing but the now familiar halls and dark, wrecked rooms flanking him on either side. Dean was no where in sight, so he reluctantly headed back down the shadowy stairwell.

He emerged in the basement, his shotgun drawn, and called Dean's name. Only echoes answered, like before. He glanced cautiously behind him as he proceeded down the corridor, and then turned back…only to almost walk right into Dean.

He jumped back and stifled a yelp. He felt relief and anger flood through him simultaneously, "Dean! What the hell…? Why didn't you answer?"

Dean just stared at him and shrugged, then spoke as if he hadn't heard the question, "What are you doing down here, Sam?"

"Looking for you, the kids told me you came down here. What's your reason?" he couldn't quite shake the feeling that something wasn't right. Like everything was just OFF somehow. He examined Dean's face, but his brother looked calm…even casual. He even still had the backpack that carried their arsenal slung over his shoulder and zipped up. Not much could have happened to him.

"Looking for you," Dean answered simply.

Sam lowered the shotgun and sighed, "Well…okay…now what? Did you find anything in Room 137?"

Dean glanced around, again acting casual, and gestured nonchalantly with his own shotgun, "Just Ellicott's log book. He was experimenting with surgical techniques, trying to cure the patients' insanity."

Sam blinked, that might be useful information, "What kind of experiments?"

Dean looked disinterested, "Some kind of extreme rage therapy, I dunno…."

Sam pursed his lips, "Maybe that's it…. Ellicott was performing these wacko experiments on them and made them worse."

Dean didn't look convinced, "It was the patients who rioted, Sam."

Sam frowned, "Yeah, probably because of what he was doing to them!"

Dean returned the frown, but still looked vaguely disinterested, "He was trying to help them. What's the big deal?"

Sam's frowned deepened. Why is Dean playing devil's advocate all of a sudden? "What do you mean, 'what's the big deal?'? If he drove them even more insane with these sick treatments, then that's probably what caused the riots, and all this trouble."

Dean shrugged, "I don't really see the connection…they probably would have rioted anyway. Doesn't matter."

Sam stared at him, shaking his head. What's his problem? "Well, where did Ellicott perform these experiments?"

"Why?"

Sam huffed in frustration, "Because whenever he did it might be a focal point for the haunting…or at least we might find out something else….?" It was strange that Dean wasn't getting it. He was usually quicker on putting clues together. But he still appeared disinterested.

"Beats me. I looked around down here…while worrying about you, by the way…and I didn't see anything out of the ordinary."

Sam shined his flashlight across the doors nearest them. It was the Biohazard doors he had passed earlier. The place was still giving him the creeps, and he was beginning to wonder if that in itself wasn't another clue. His 'Shining,' as Dean called it, might be picking something up.

"Come on, let's give this one another once over," he said heading for the doors. Dean turned but didn't follow right away. Sam could feel Dean's eyes following his every move. What's wrong with him?

Sam raised his weapon again, and led the way into the Biohazard room. It was just as decrepit and nasty looking as the rest of the hellhole known as the Roosevelt Asylum, and Sam was beginning to feel dirty just walking around in it. They sooner they finished this hunt the better.

He heard Dean stroll in behind him and stop a few feet from the opposite wall. Dean's odd behavior was bugging him. It wasn't like him to be so dismissive of possible evidence during an investigation like this. Their dad had made it clear to them over the years that no detail was too small when it came to hunting. One clue unexplored could mean the difference between life and death.

"You know, if the experiments were secret, then it stands to reason Ellicott might have had a secret operating room too…" he tossed out, hoping Dean might pick up the train of thought. A noncommittal grunt was Dean's only response. The indifference was quickly moving from bugging Sam to worrying him. Something's not right….

Getting no help from his brother, he stopped and listened to the room; something was making noise…like air rustling through holes in the walls. He noticed that one section of the wall didn't quite meet the floor. There was a small gap. He reached a hand out and felt air moving near it. Gotcha!

"Dean, check it out…I think there's a hidden room behind this wall…."

This time there was a more definite reply, but it wasn't the kind that Sam expected.

He heard the distinct sound of a shotgun being cocked.

"Sam…enough," he heard Dean whisper in a low, dangerous voice. He turned to find himself facing his very pissed-looking brother. Though, he found that the muzzle of the shotgun that was aimed at his chest was worrying him even more.

"Dean…what're you doing?" Sam asked, a pit of cold fear forming in his stomach. The look in Dean's eyes was furious…murderous. He'd seen the look often enough, but had never been on the receiving end before…not even as kids when their horseplay sometimes went too far. Uh oh….

Sam stared at Dean for a moment, his mouth hanging open in shock. His brother didn't play around with weapons…he was pointing the gun at him for real. Did something get to him down here?

"Dean…calm down…just--just put the gun down…."

"Why?" Dean sneered, "Is that the smart thing to do, College Boy? Learn that at school did ya?"

"Dean…."

"You know what? Just shut up, Sammy! For once in your spoiled life, just shut the hell up and stop back-talking."

Dean sniffled suddenly, and absently used his free hand to wipe away the blood that had started dripping from his nose. Sam watched, the cold dread of sudden realization seeping into his thoughts. Crap…Ellicott did something to him.

"He got to you, didn't he Dean? Ellicott did something to you down here."

Dean laughed, but it was more condescending than humorous, "Ah-ha! Super Genius thinks he's onto something! Once again, poor Dean needs his little brother's help to get through the big bad hunt…can't do anything on his own. Forget the four years I spent watching Dad's back and hunting alone while you went off to party and fuck sorority chicks. Nooo…Sammy can't be loyal to his family…Sammy needs his freedom…."

"Dean…" Sam took a halting step forward but Dean stepped back and gestured with the shotgun.

"Stay right there…don't touch me you freak."

Sam pursed his lips, trying to see past the vitriolic ravings and get through to Dean before he hurt himself. Or me…. He took a page from Dean's book and fought bravado with bravado, "If you wanna kill me you're gonna have to do better than that. That gun's filled with rock salt, it can't kill m---"

He was cut off when the right barrel of the gun abruptly discharged. He felt the cloud of tiny but sharp salt grains hit him with breathtaking force, sending him flying backwards into the fake wall he'd found. The wooden door gave way, letting Sam hurtle through it into the secret room beyond. He landed hard, winded by the impact, and barely held on to consciousness. He heard Dean's sarcastic retort as he landed.

"Nah…but it'll hurt like hell, Sammy boy…."

For a few seconds, Sam could barely breathe. He heard Dean walking toward him, but couldn't lift his head to see. Desperately trying to catch his breath, he concentrated on inhaling…only to start coughing violently. It felt like he'd cracked his ribs.

He flinched when the backpack dropped forcefully to the ground beside his head. Dean came into view as the wheezing subsided, leveling the shot gun at Sam's head at point blank range. Sam knew that even if the next blast didn't kill him, it would probably mangle his face pretty badly, and most certainly blind him. He struggled to find his voice, and find some way out of this nightmare.

"Dean…you don't wanna do this…. Come on, man, fight it. You're being manipulated!" he forced out between coughs. Dean's only reaction was a smirk.

"No, I'm just being honest for the first time. Not so defiant now, are we Tough Guy? No place to run away to now."

Sam knew that Ellicott was somehow controlling his brother, but something inside him wanted to know what Dean was talking about.

"What do you mean?"

Dean grew angrier, "You know exactly what I mean! I took care of you! I practically raised you while Dad was too busy hunting! I took all the flak when Dad was angry…I faced all your bullies…I spent my whole life trying to keep you safe…and what do you do? You run off to California, first chance you get. Like nothing I ever did mattered! You abandoned me!"

Sam didn't want listen to this. He didn't want to listen, because he knew that Ellicott was behind all this.

Because Dean probably wouldn't remember saying any of this, and would feel bad for it when he found out later.

Because, on some level, he knew that every word of it was true.

Every last word.

His instincts told him to keep Dean talking, keep his attention on the conversation and off pulling the trigger a second time. But part of him told him to answer Dean's accusations, whether Dean really meant them or not. He couldn't help but think back to St. Louis…the shapeshifter had told him how Dean felt; he just didn't want to believe it at the time. Now, he wasn't so sure. Could it be that Ellicott's influence here was simply forcing Dean to tell the truth? The thought caused a knot to form in Sam's stomach.

Glancing from the shotgun to his brother's hard eyes, he answered the accusation in the only way he could. He addressed Dean with honesty.

"I never wanted to hurt you, Dean."

"Nah, of course not…" Dean sneered, "Well, I never wanted to spend my childhood changing diapers and cooking dinners for an ungrateful little snot like you. But we don't get what we want in life, do we Genius?"

Sam had no answer for that. He knew his life recently hadn't been exactly ideal. Between Dad going missing and Jessica dying it had felt like Hell on Earth…but this latest peak into Dean's head made the last six months feel like paradise. He had no idea, until now, that Dean harbored such bitterness towards him.

Part of him wanted to scream back at Dean. He had idolized his older brother…still did to a degree. For most of his life, Dean had seemed capable of doing anything. He had been like a real-life superhero in Sam's youth. Sam loved him like no one else…not even Jessica. Dean had practically raised him, being an older brother, best friend, and surrogate parent all at the same time.

Knowing now what that role had done to Dean, Sam couldn't help but feel that it was all his fault. He had been the demon's target that night, not Mary Winchester. He had been the youngest and least able to defend himself on all those hunts. He had been the one to forsake Dean's work and run off to college…only to end up getting Jessica killed, too.

Dean…and Jessica…and his Dad…probably would have lived a happy life if Sam had never been born.

A glint of light drew Sam's eyes to Dean's waistband, where the grip of Dean's 9mm handgun was visible in the gloom. Raising his eyes back to Dean's livid face, he wondered what it'd be like to just let Dean finish it. One shot. A chance to pay for what his very existence had done to so many people that he loved. Sam couldn't say for certain that he'd regret the decision.

Dean, despite the fury painted across his features, seemed to notice Sam's shift in attention, and followed Sam's gaze down to his waist as well. Seeing the pistol, he grabbed it, discarded the shotgun, and then pointed the silver handgun directly at Sam's face.

Sam's urge to just let go intensified, and he was strangely calm...much more so than he would be normally when people shoved deadly weapons in his face. He found the sensation curious. Like being on the brink of relief. Like reading the last page of a book. He almost opened his mouth to ask Dean to fire. Then a singular thought crossed his mind.

Walter Kelly.

Kelly had killed his wife after being affected by this place...then he had turned his rage onto himself. The odd calm was replaced by fear. If Sam let Dean kill him, then his brother most probably would do what the police officer had done and kill himself.

Sam couldn't let that happen, no matter how much he wanted to give up.

"Dean," he said slowly, trying not to antagonize, "you don't want to do this."

Dean snarled, "Stop telling me what to do, Sammy...I've been at this a helluva lot longer than you! I know what I'm doing! You don't know everything, Smart Guy."

Smart Guy. The old nickname stung when spat at him like that. He wondered if any of Dean's nicknames would ever feel the same after this. Presuming they survived, of course. He had been ready to let it all go a moment before, but now, the shift in priorities back to trying to save Dean's life reopened him to Dean's tirade of hurtful accusations.

Sam shook it off, but his eyes kept drifting back to the gun...something didn't look right. With his trained eye, he examined the weapon as surreptitiously as he could, trying to find the problem. After a painfully long moment, he found it. The clip was missing. The gun wasn't loaded!

Dean must have been ready for something like this... Sam thought, marveling at his brother's ability to see the worst case scenario every time. He was grateful for his brother's pessimism today. He might still fix this; all he needed now was a distraction. One occurred to him, but he hated putting Dean through it. He won't remember...he's possessed...

"Okay, Dean..." he started, struggling to keep his voice hard, "you hate me that much...do it. Just shoot. Put me out of my misery and yours."

"I will," Dean ground out, "I'll do it..."

Sam was only partly relieved to hear the note of conflict in Dean's voice...maybe he was fighting it. He couldn't let up though, if he wanted his plan to work.

"Then DO IT! NOW!" he shouted, hoping to hell he wasn't somehow mistaken about the gun "Shut up the College Boy for good!"

Dean growled, Sam's taunting overwhelming Dean's obvious efforts to fight the possession. He pulled the trigger.

Sam froze, waiting to be proven wrong, and make his last mistake.

Nothing.

Dean looked from Sam to the gun and back in confusion, then pulled the trigger again.

And again.

And again.

Sam smiled a grim smile, and swung his longer legs up while Dean was distracted. He kicked forward hard, his foot slamming into Dean's groin. His brother went down with a yell. Sam scrambled to his feet, adrenaline helping him ignore the pain in his chest and back, and stepped over to face Dean, who was struggling to face him.

One right hook and Dean was out. Sam staggered back, gasping from the effort. A small smile crossed his face as he looked at his unconscious sibling and shook his now aching hand. Damn he has a hard head….

"Sorry, big brother..."

Sam stumbled back to the duffle Dean had dropped…well, thrown at him. He gathered up the salt and lighter fluid, and walked further into the room, searching for a likely spot for Ellicott's remains to be hidden. It didn't take long to find.

The demented doctor in question had apparently spent the better part of four decades stuffed...stuffed...into a small cabinet near the examination tables.

Sam gagged at the stench, but a quick glance to Dean's already stirring form gave him added determination. He scattered salt and lighter fluid along the remains and turned to get the lighter from the bag. He found himself face to face with the gray, shimmering ghost of Ellicott.

Before he could react, Ellicott pressed his...its...hands against Sam's head. His world seemed to explode as the spectral energy lanced into his skull. Ellicott's bizarrely kind words floated through his consciousness.

Don't be afraid...I'm going to make you all better...

The pain transformed into anger...rage... How dare Dean blame him...Dean was Daddy's little soldier...how could that pathetic little man---

Sam forced himself to ignore the fury that was building inside him, and strained to find where the lighter had fallen. He found and ignited it.

One toss and the nightmare was over.

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Sam nodded to Gavin and Cat in farewell, and turned his back, gingerly lowering the duffle bag into the trunk. With the adrenaline rush gone, he could feel every ache and pain. His chest was on fire, and every time his shirt moved he had to forcefully suppress a gasp.

"Hey, guys," Dean said. It was the first time he'd spoken since coming outside, "stay out of haunted asylums from now on okay?"

The kids replied but Sam didn't bother listening, he closed the trunk, biting his lip as he raised his arms, and made his way to the passenger side door. He felt Dean's eyes on him, but didn't look up until he heard Dean speaking again.

"You okay?"

Sam nodded, but said nothing. He was still feeling the lingering effects of Ellicott's zapping, and he found himself somewhat angry with Dean. His rational mind assured him that it was merely the ghost's influence. After all, he had no reason to be mad...Dean had been forced to tell the truth about how he felt for the first time in a long while.

It was all kinds of fucked up that it took a rage-inducing spirit to loosen Dean's tongue.

"Sammy...look, I-- Well, I'm sorry about what happened in there..."

"Don't worry about it, Dean."

Dean didn't look like he was going to let it go, "But...that stuff I said...I didn't mean it..."

That got Sam's attention.

Usually when possessed, people didn't remember anything. Ellicott must not have been possessing people in the usual way, "You remember all that?"

Dean nodded glumly. It was odd. He shouldn't remember. What did that mean? If he was aware of what he was saying…if it wasn't being forced out of him----

"I didn't mean it, Sam," Dean repeated, breaking into his thoughts.

Sam felt a sickening feeling of panic bubble up from within and struggled to keep his face neutral...he hated to test Dean's honesty, but he needed to know...he tossed Dean an innocent-sounding question.

"Not even a little?"

Dean responded in the worst way Sam could have imagined.

He hesitated before answering.

Oh God...

"Sam..."

Sam pursed his lips and averted his eyes, slipping a mask into place the way he'd seen Dean do it all his life, "S'Okay. You ready to hit the road?"

He climbed into the car and closed the door before Dean could answer. He squeezed his eyes shut; breathing through the pain in his chest...a pain that he knew was only partly due to being shot.

His mind was reeling, He meant it...he meant it all...he hates me...he hates me for what I did... He felt his world imploding in on him. He automatically remembered every odd glance and frown...every time Dean had looked at him oddly but refused to say why...

The sound of Dean's door opening startled him. He let his head lean against the cold window and shut his eyes again...shutting out Dean along with the rest of his shattered reality.

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When they arrived back at the hotel, Sam kicked off his shoes by the bed and padded silently into the small bathroom. One look in the mirror at his exhausted features confirmed that he, in fact, looked exactly as bad as he felt. His chest ached badly, enough to make him think that he had bruised more than just his back when he'd been blasted through the hidden door. His jacket had absorbed alot of the rock salt grains, so that only a relatively small, circular area of his T-shirt was a tattered mess. Guess it could have been worse...

He shrugged off his jacket and started to tug his ruined shirt over his head, when a sharp pain in his chest made him hiss and grit his teeth. The shirt was stuck on a small red area of his skin, where a small spot of blood had formed and dried. He immediately regretted leaving the bathroom door open when Dean appeared from around the corner, drawn by the noise.

"Sam? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine," Sam ground out. He wasn't in the mood for a mother-hen right now...especially one that hated him enough to pull that trigger four times. Dean wasn't so easily dissuaded though, as he was already examining the damage to Sam's torso.

"You're not fine Sammy...let me help you..."

"You don't have to Dean," Sam said quietly, "I can take care of it."

"Sam, come on...you're hurt."

Sam sighed silently, knowing it was a lost cause to argue with Dean when he was using that tone of voice, and let Dean help him remove the shirt. Dean had to carefully peel off the fabric, which made him wince as the scabbed cuts were reopened. Dean muttered an apology and started cleaning the wound. Normally, the level of care Dean was showing was heartwarming, a meaningful gesture between them that had become as much brotherly bonding as it was damage control. It had always made Sam feel loved.

Now it just made him feel guilty and lost. Dean deserved so much better….

"You've got a chunk of salt imbedded right there," Dean observed, shining a light on the area. Dean told him to wait and moved out into the main room. He returned a moment later with the first aid kit.

Sam reached for the metal box, intending to do it himself, "I can do it, Dean."

Dean waved him away, "You can...but I owe you at least this much..."

"You don't owe me anything, Dean," Sam replied tiredly, squeezing his eyes shut. If anything, I owe you...

Dean ignored him and used tweezers to remove the salt fragments from the aggravated wound. He finished cleaning it and taped some gauze down to keep it covered. Sam mumbled a thank you, popped a couple pain pills from the kit, and started to step out of the bathroom, but Dean stopped him.

"Wait, let me check your ribs."

Sam frowned, he didn't care about his ribs, "I just wanna sleep, Dean..."

Dean frowned back, "It'll just take a second...you know the drill."

Sam turned back and let Dean feel his ribs. He gasped when Dean pressed a particularly sensitive spot.

"Just bruised, I think. Nothing too bad."

Sam nodded in reply, and raised his eyebrows. Dean nodded and Sam retreated to the soft bed at last. Dean circled around him and sat on his own bed. Sam screwed up enough courage to glance in his direction and mutter, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"You know...everything...you deserved better."

"Sam---"

"'Night Dean," Sam mumbled and turned away. He couldn't bear to look at Dean's regretful expression. It's not his fault...

Sleep didn't come.

Besides the physical pain in his chest, Sam couldn't stop repeating Dean's hate-filled words over and over in his mind. He sensed it when Dean finally stopped staring at him and rolled over. Sam reopened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

He wasn't sure how long he lay there unmoving, but Dean's breathing finally evened out and he knew his brother was asleep. He wasn't why that was such a relief. Sam wondered why Dean had come to get him in the first place.

He said that he couldn't find Dad alone...but if he hated me that much...

Morose thoughts tumbled through his mind until the pain meds claimed him at last and his world faded to black.

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The past two weeks had been rough on both of them. Little things...like who used the last of the warm water, where to eat, who cleaned the guns...every thing seemed to erupt into an argument. Half the time, Dean wasn't sure what they were even arguing about. He knew Sam was hurting, but he felt too guilty about what happened to bring it up.

He vaguely remembered some old saying about an elephant in the room.

He suspected that Sam believed the hateful garbage Ellicott had dredged out of his mind, but every time he tried to talk to about it, Sam shut down. Dean didn't know what to do.

Surely, Sam knew how his own brother felt about him. But other voices in Dean's head told him the opposite. How would he? You've never told him.

Dean regretted ever having gone to that God-forsaken asylum. Not for the first time, he doubted his dad's judgment. He could contact them to send them on 'missions,' but not to tell them where he was? Deep down, he had as many doubts about their father as Sam did. But Dean had been following his Dad's lead since he was five...so he had to believe that John Winchester would do what was right for his sons. He had to believe that. If Sam didn't, then Dean would have to believe enough for both of them.

What choice did he have?

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They'd been fighting all day. Again. Sam wasn't sure how much more he could take.

He knew Dean meant well. He trusted his brother. He always had. But Dean was so fucking pigheaded sometimes. Lately, since the asylum, things had only gotten worse. It was like they couldn't even talk without butting heads.

He wanted to scream: Why do you care? Why did you drag me this far when you blame me for everything?

But the words never came. Even now, after hearing the truth, Sam couldn't lash out at his brother like that.

Of course, he couldn't quite forget everything Dean had said either. Or the fact that he'd pulled the trigger four times. Actions speak louder than words sometimes.

He came out of the shower, tossed his clothes over his bag, and slumped on the bed. Dean was reading something on the laptop and glanced up as he passed.

"I think I found a gig, if you're up to it. Some kids have gone missing in Nebraska. Sounds like a rawhead."

Sam nodded. He was too tired to argue, "Sure."

"Don't show too much enthusiasm, there, Sam..." Dean muttered with irritation.

"What? I said okay," Sam retorted, irritation flaring.

"If you don't want to check this out just say so!"

Sam sighed, "Dean...please. I don't want to argue. Can we do this in the morning?"

Dean seemed to deflate, like he was disappointed that Sam was backing down. He nodded and shut off the laptop, "Okay."

Sam pulled back his covers and slid bonelessly under the starchy hotel sheets. His chest wasn't aching quite as bad now, and the bruises left by the asylum had mostly faded away. The visible ones.

Dean moved to his bed, but kept his eyes on Sam the entire time. He spoke just as Sam's eyes were starting to drift shut, "Sam, if...if you wanna talk...about anything…."

Sam couldn't help the smirk that formed, "Heh. Now if that doesn't make the top ten list of Things I Never Thought I'd Hear Dean Winchester Say..."

Dean didn't share the humor; instead he just clammed up, "Okay. Goodnight..."

Sam lay there motionlessly, eyes shut. He listened to Dean shut off the lights and climb into the other bed. After that, Sam reopened his eyes and prepared himself for his now nightly practice of staring at the ceiling until exhaustion came. As usual, Dean was out just a few minutes later. He'd gotten used to these timeouts after Dean went to sleep. It gave him time to catalog all the ways he had managed to piss his brother off...again. Dean might call it brooding, if they had been speaking much anymore.

He wasn't trying to aggravate Dean...lately he just seemed to be able to do it really easily. I don't even know I'm doing it most of the time...

He didn't know how much longer this passive-aggressive thing would last before it exploded in both their faces. Or gets us killed. Such musings would have to wait, however, as Sam felt his eyelids growing heavy.

About that time his brother's cell phone began to chirp. When Dean didn't answer by the second ring, Sam called out with some irritation, "Dean?"

Nothing.

Great... Dean was out cold.

Sam reached out, wincing as he stretched his still stiff pectoral muscles, and snagged the flip-phone off the nightstand.

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end shocked him.

"Dad?"

TBC