Special thanks to Scribble2Much, who was awesome enough to listen to me rant about this chapter, and to bounce ideas with me.

.Chapter 11b.

"I don't hate you, boy,
I just want to save you
While there's still something left to save."

-Rise Against, Savior

"Dean, wake up! Dean!"

Dean gasps and then starts as he comes face to face with Bobby's worried expression, "Jesus, Bobby, personal space."

"Wouldn't need to be in here if you weren't yellin' the house down. Thought something got in," Bobby replies as he wheels back, putting space between himself and Dean's bed.

Dean colors, even though his heart is still pounding. "Sorry. Just…weird dream."

"Uh huh," Bobby says with a look that clearly expresses that he thinks 'weird' is an understatement, "Well, find your brother. Grub'll be up soon."

Dean's head snaps over to the other bed where Sam should be. It's empty, hasn't even been slept in.

"You haven't seen Sam? What time is it?" Dean's already pushing the blankets out of his way, scrambling to get out of bed. He stands and his head rings, the familiar effect of an alcohol binge.

"Gettin' close to nine," Bobby says with a frown, "Figured he was sleeping it off in here."

Dean pulls on a shirt, "He wasn't on the couch?"

"If he was, do you think I'd be in here telling you to find him?" Bobby deadpans.

Dean rolls his eyes and leaves the room, yelling for Sam as he does so. He pauses in the hallways and listens for footsteps or an answer. All he hears is the hum of the water heater.

"Damn it," Dean growls as he continues on, doing a quick in and out sweep of the house. He's not sure why he's all that concerned with Sam's whereabouts, to be honest. After the fight last night he's not exactly itching to see him, and Sam's more than capable of being on his own for a while. But something he can't explain is making him feel weird about it, making him feel uncomfortable like a shirt that fits a little too tightly.

Dean walks out to the truck that they had been lounging on the night before. The cooler's still there, empty and sitting by the passenger side tire. So Sammy finished off the beer and went…where? Dean turns around and looks out at the salvage yard with a hand over his mouth. Impala, maybe? He starts heading in that direction.

Dean's not gonna panic. Just because Sam's M.I.A. doesn't mean something's happened to him. Bobby's place is locked down like a supernatural Fort Knox, and there would've been signs: a struggle, sulfur, blood, something. Sammy's fine, probably just brooding somewhere about the fight last night.

Dean keeps telling himself this even though he looks in the Impala and Sam's not there.

There's only one place left to check and Dean can't imagine why Sam would go there. He takes off again for the house, near jogging in his haste to get to the basement. He runs down the steps and wrenches open the peephole to the panic room door. Then he lets out a breath, relieved. Sam's lying on the cot inside, back to the panic room door. As quietly as he can, Dean opens the door and steps inside. Sam doesn't stir but Dean frowns, seeing shivers rattle his brother every so often. He turns, leaves the panic room, and grabs a spare blanket from the storage cabinet by the stairs. After covering Sam with it, Dean sits on the floor with his back leaning against the wall, facing the cot.

From under the blanket, Dean can only see Sam's newly shaved head and the tips of his toes. His gaze lingers on the buzz cut. If Lucifer hadn't brought Sam back with a clean slate – no bruises, cuts, or welts – then the outline of the noose would've been perfectly visible without Sam's hair to cover it. Not that it really matters. Dean can see the bruises perfectly; they're branded into his memory. And if he had forgotten during the day, the constant nightmares are sure to remind him.

Dean's lips tighten as he thinks of the images that have been plaguing him the past week or so. Sam is the notorious one for nightmares in the family, but when the occasion calls for it, Dean can give him a run for his money. They're different every night and yet not. Sam always dies, but sometimes it's not in the way Tim killed him. Sometimes it's Sam in hell, sometimes it's Lucifer, and once, it was even Dean himself who snuffed out his brother's life in dreamland. That one had required whiskey upon waking. He expects they'll go away eventually, just like the ones from Cold Oak did and like the memories from hell did, but he also expects that it's going to take a helluva long time. And really, if Dean's struggling with this, then he can only imagine what Sam's going through.

Dean frowns as he goes back to studying Sam's sleeping form. He can't really blame his brother for seeking refuge in the panic room. Even though the room holds terrible memories for both of them, it's still probably the safest damn room in the world when it comes to protection from the supernatural. If Dean were still having nightmares about hell, he'd probably attempt to block them out by encasing himself in salt and iron, too. Even though he understands why Sam's sleeping down here, it still doesn't sit well with him. He hates that Sam's suffering enough to come down here. He may still be mad at Sam over Ruby and that whole mess, but the last thing he wants is for Sam to keep suffering because of hell. God knows if he could, Dean'd go back in time and change it all. He wouldn't separate from Sam. He'd find Tim and kick his ass so hard that he wouldn't even think the word "Winchester" without feeling pain. He'd keep Sam out of hell. But since he can't do any of that, the best thing he can do is help his brother.

Dean breathes hard out of his nose, his resolve steeling. He doubts Sam will talk about what happened to him in hell, and that's fine. But Dean can't just sit back and let his brother handle things himself when Sam's obviously in pain, especially with something like this. No one on earth is going to understand what Sam's going through more than Dean, so even though he's not going to push, he is going to do something, anything, to give Sam some peace. Even if it brings up the things Dean's tried to bury.

That is, if Sam even lets him, because after last night, Dean's not so sure.

He's still not sure how he feels about the fight last night, or if it even counts, considering they were both wasted. To be honest, he's not sure he cares either way. What he realized with crystal clarity when Sam died is that it's arrogant to take things for granted. He's hurt, monumentally so, by the choices Sam made with Ruby. He's pissed at both his brother and himself for letting things get the way they are, and he has no clue what they're going to do about the shit storm they're heading into with Lucifer and Michael. But maybe it all doesn't matter. Maybe what matters is that he tries to forgive Sam, that they work on healing each other, that they try to figure things out together. Because he may still be pissed but he isn't going to take time with Sam for granted and waste it fighting with each other. Not again.

At that moment, Sam makes a noise that Dean has long recognized as Sam's 'waking up' noise. Dean sits up a bit straighter as Sam rolls over, winces as the bars of the cot dig into him, and then blinks awake. His gaze immediately settles on Dean.

"What're you doing down here?" Sam voice is full of sleep, but the confusion is still evident.

"Could ask you the same thing."

Dean sees Sam shrug under the blanket but he doesn't say anything. Dean recognizes it for what it is because he's the master at it: avoidance. Sam doesn't want to tell him why he's bunked up in the panic room, and normally, Dean would be ok with that. This isn't normally.

Dean sighs, "I think we should talk."

"Never thought I'd hear you say that," Sam says.

"You're hilarious. I'm serious, Sam."

Sam presses his lips together, "About what?"

"Everything."

"Oh, is that all?"

Dean ignores Sam's sarcasm. He's familiar enough with defense mechanisms to know one when it's thrown in his face. Hell, sarcasm's one of his favorites too.

"Why are you down here, Sammy?" Dean asks again.

Sam smiles a bit, it's small and cynical, and he turns over on his back, staring at the fan in the ceiling, "You're not going to want to hear about it."

Normally, this would be where Dean would shrug, say "ok," and then buy Sam his favorite lunch or something just to remind the kid that he's here. But he knows that something like that isn't going to work this time. It's going to take a lot more than a few lunches to dig themselves outta the mess they've buried themselves in.

Dean closes his eyes, telling himself that it's now or never. "When I got to hell, the first thing I did was yell for you." The sentence comes out steady despite how shaky Dean feels. He sees Sam tenses up. "I knew there was no way you could hear me, but…it was just habit, you know?" Dean laughs but it doesn't hold humor, "It just made it worse because I knew you weren't coming."

"Dean, stop." Sam sounds close to tears.

"And I was scared, man. So damned scared. You have no idea what's coming when you're hanging on those chains, but you know that if it's anything close to what you're feeling right then, that you don't want to survive it. But you don't have a choice. That's what hell is." Dean pauses and looks at Sam, who has tear streaks running down his face. "And they don't let you cry because crying makes the mind feel better, and that's not allowed in hell. The only thing you're allowed to do is scream and most of the time, you don't even have the air to do that much."

"Why are you telling me this?" Sam finally asks and breathes harshly, as if he's trying to get himself back under control.

Dean swallows, feeling his own tears burn the back of his throat, "Cause I wish someone would've been able to tell me when I got outta the pit. It gets better, Sammy. I promise. Not right away but eventually, you stop hearing screams and…which ever demon was assigned to you. You stop hearing them."

Sam scrubs his face with the back of his wrist like a toddler and keeps his eyes on the ceiling.

"Hey, look at me," Dean says and reaches out to tug lightly on Sam's shirt sleeve. He waits patiently while Sam turns his head, his hazel eyes bright with tears and red-rimmed.

"It's gonna be ok. Me n' you? We're gonna be ok."

Sam doesn't look like he's totally on Dean's page, but the haunted undertone that's been in Sam's gaze the past four days or so is lighter, and that's all Dean can really ask for at this point.

"You do remember last night, right?" Sam asks, sounding both hesitant and vaguely amused.

Dean half smiles, "I wasn't that drunk, Sam."

Sam just blinks. Dean rubs his hand over his face and sighs, "Yeah. I remember."

"I was right all along, wasn't I?" Sam says softly, "You never stopped hating me for what I did."

"Hey!" Dean immediately barks and then softens his tone when he sees Sam flinch, "I don't hate you; I never did. I couldn't even if I tried. You think I'd kill other hunters for you if I hated you? C'mon, Sam."

"But…"

"I just need some time here, Sam. Ok? Just…give me some time to work through it all."

Sam stares for a moment before answering quietly, "Yeah. Ok."

Dean nods and lets out a breath he barely realized he'd been holding, and cracks a small, relieved smile, "Ok. Good."

Sam nods and turns his head back towards the ceiling. Dean frowns, "You alright?"

Dean sees Sam swallow, and it takes him a little longer than Dean would like for him to answer but eventually Sam smiles and says, "Yeah, I'm alright."