One night in March, 3/4, [R] Dean, Sam (Gen)

[shellsanne]

Title: One night in March
Author: Shellsanne
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam and Dean (with a side of Lucifer)
Genre: heavy on the angst, hurt/comfort/craziness, no slash
Spoilers: This takes place after season 7, episode 15; no spoilers
Note: Comments welcome! Please comment!!

Summary: As Sam struggles to face his impending breakdown, it’s Dean who is spiraling out of control.

*********

Dean managed to kick the door open before charging inside, as if storming an enemy garrison, shotgun raised, locked and loaded, one hand steadying the short barrel, one on the trigger, ready for battle.

"SAM!" he shouted, a silhouette against the motel's neon-lit parking lot behind him.

"Dean?" Sam managed, and would have said more, might have uttered a sound of shock, but his brother began firing then.

Not at anything in particular, just firing. Blindly, randomly, crazily, into the strobe-lit darkness, as if he were trying to take out every blinking light.

"Where is he? Where is he?" Dean thundered.

"Dean, no-" Sam sputtered, feeling dazed (was this really happening?), "it's-"

Dean continued to point and shoot. A lamp exploded, a mirror hanging on the far wall shattered, woodchip and plaster sprayed from fresh holes in the walls. Sam ducked, yelling Dean's name, pleading with him to stop, but Dean seemed locked into attack mode, determined to kill something. The smell of lead dust clung to the air.

Sam skirted him, ducking with every shot, then launched himself at his brother and threw his arms around him in a tight hold, shouting, "Dean, stop, stop, stop!"

But Dean bucked against him, writhing in Sam's arms. "Sam? What the hell are you doing?" He only calmed when, with one last flicker, the lights settled and remained on.

Sam, however, was frantic. He abruptly released his brother and spun him around to face him. "What the hell are you doing? What is this? What's going on?"

Dean blinked at him, as if dazed.

Sam stared back, waited. But his brother seemed lost in a fog. He grabbed Dean by the shoulders and shook him roughly. "Dean?"

"I'm … helping you!"

"You're shooting up my room!"

Dean's eyes darted wildly around the room. "But-there's-"

"Nothing! There's nothing here, Dean! Nothing!"

Dean stared at him wide-eyed, clearly confused. "But you said…" he stammered, voice thin, suddenly uncertain, as he took a step back from him, "you said it was Lucifer. You said that in your text ..."

In the soft glow of the motel room's lighting, stable now, Sam was able to clearly see his brother for the first time. He cast a brief but assessing gaze over him from head to foot. He looked like he'd been in a terrible fight-and lost. His face was haggard, gaunt, his jacket was filthy, covered in some murky dark substance, and the shirt beneath was dirty, spattered with blood and torn in places. The stare in his eyes was beyond confused; it was the look of a wild, wounded animal that's been cornered. His brother looked feral.

Sam decided to change his tone. He slowed his words and spoke in a low, calming voice. "Yeah. That's what I said. But you know it isn't real. You've known that for a long time. You know that … Right?"

Dean didn't respond, didn't move. As if he didn't dare.

"Are you hurt?" Sam asked, hoping to sound casual, and hoping to look casual as he slipped behind Dean, grabbed the duffel bag that he'd dropped on the threshold, and closed the door. Dean didn't move, his wary gaze continually scanning the room.

"I'm fine."

Sam set his brother's duffel bag next to the closest twin bed, then glanced back at Dean. He raked a hand nervously through his hair. Maybe he was fine. Maybe this was just Dean being Dean, quick on the draw in the best of times, a little over the top when times were tense. Especially if he'd been drinking… but Sam didn't think so. Looking at him now, he seemed wired, overwrought, an undetonated bomb.

And he had a shotgun in his hand. Jesus…

"Let me have the gun," he said, a little more sharply than he intended.

"Why?" Dean recoiled slightly, defensively.

"Because I'm asking you for it." This time much more sharply than he intended. He glanced away, took a steadying breath, and tried again. "Just let me have it. It's okay…"

Dean was staring at him as if he'd gone mad.

"There's nothing here, Dean. It's safe, I promise."

"But the lights-"

"Electrical short. My fault. Nothing demonic." He reached for the shotgun and laid his hand carefully on the barrel, his eyes locked on Dean's. "Let it go?" It came out more as a question than a request.

Dean dipped his head in what looked like a nod and, very reluctantly, allowed Sam to take-or rather wrench-the gun from his grip.

Sam stepped back from him as he checked and cleared the rifle's magazine, a task that came so naturally to him he completed it without looking away from Dean, then laid it on the floor by the far wall. A lot of good bullets would have done in a demonic situation anyway. What was he thinking? Did he even realize what his weapon of choice was discharging? He regarded Dean evenly, still trying to judge his condition, unsure whether to be concerned or furious.

"What happened to you?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing chewed you up and spit you out? Because that's what you look like."

Dean's oddly charged stillness broke, and he began pacing. "Doesn't matter. I'm here."

Sam grunted. "Yeah? So?"

Dean stopped long enough to shoot a glare at Sam, his muscles twitching, his breathing ragged and uneven. Through gritted teeth he said, "So you said you needed help, I'm here to help," and went back to pacing.

Sam made a deliberate effort to keep his voice steady. "I didn't say that. I said I was okay."

"Yeah, you were lying," said Dean with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Where have you been?"

Dean stopped pacing again. "What?"

Sam slowly approached him now, closing the distance between them until they were just a foot or so apart. He wasn't sure why, but furious was winning out. "For the past five days. Where have you been?"

Anger flared in Dean's eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched into a sneer. He faced Sam squarely, closing the distance to inches now. "Where have I been?"

"Yeah, where have you been?"

"I've been hunting the monster that killed Bobby! Remember Bobby?"

They glared at each other, inches apart, Sam's own temper roiling within him, coursing through his body with such venom that every part of him seemed to tremble. He wanted to hit him. He wanted to shout him down. But instead he forced himself to see his brother's contorted face, the dark shadows under his eyes, his half-crazed disposition, and he reigned the venom in. He dragged in a deep, jagged breath, and took a step back, needing to create space.

He had nearly lost it. And it occurred to him then, not without amusement, that Dean had managed in five minutes what Lucifer had been trying to do for nearly a week. He looked at Dean-who looked dangerously pissed off-and almost smiled. Quietly he said, "Just … tell me what happened. Okay?"

He immediately began pacing again, fast, back and forth, almost manically, eyes blazing. "Nothing happened. I lost him-it. I had it in my sights, I was so close, Sammy, so close I could smell the black shit that oozes through its veins and then I ... somehow I … lost it." With a swing of his arm he toppled a bedside end table. The items on top-a lamp, the TV remote, Sam's beer-crashed to the floor. Dean marched past it without losing a beat. "Sonofabitch was just … gone! Vanished! It was right there and then …"

"Okay," Sam said, calmingly, concern taking hold now. "Okay, yeah, I get it."

Dean was searching the room now, in that same manic way. "I need a drink."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, "actually might not be a bad idea." He was about to point him to the Jack Daniels in the cupboard but Dean was already tearing through cupboards and throwing open doors in the small kitchenette. When the bottle appeared he snatched it, along with a used glass sitting in the sink to be washed, and poured several shots into it. Sam moved up gingerly beside him, watching as he knocked back all the shots at once. Then poured another.

"It had help, Sammy," he continued, as if there'd been no interruption, "it had to have outside help, there's no way it could have gotten past me the way it did unless there was someone, something, watching every move I made, waiting for me to … to …"

"Dean?"

"… look the other way, or … And that's when I checked my phone, and I read your message, and it sounded like you were … like maybe you were …"

"Dean …"

" … maybe you were …" He gulped back the contents of the glass.

"When's the last time you slept?"

Dean rounded on him. "What?"

Slowly, carefully, Sam asked again, "When was the last time that you slept?"

Dean's eyes flashed with renewed rage. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Oh, I'm listening."

Veins throbbed visibly on Dean's neck as he locked his jaw. "You know, I've been a little busy, Sam," he growled. "Naps haven't been a priority." He tried to move past Sam, but Sam blocked him.

"Can you just answer me?" Sam kept his voice deliberately calm, even.

Dean slammed the glass down on the kitchenette counter, hard enough to dent the cheap linoleum. "What the hell's your problem?" he snarled, his own voice dark, threatening, and steadily rising. "What exactly do you want from me? You asked for my help-"

"-No I didn't-"

"-and I raced to your rescue one more time-"

"My rescue?"

"-because Sammy can't seem to handle the scary stuff by himself, so here I am, yet again, when where I should be, where I need to be, is back where I was, taking care of business, killing things! Do you still remember how to do that, Sam, or are you too busy playing house with your imaginary friend?"

Sam gaped at him, drop-jawed, both stunned and seething, ready once again to deck his brother.

And once again, he pulled back. With a great deal more effort this time. Every muscle in his body taut and shaking, as if tethered by a tight line of control, Sam quietly said, "No. You're not pushing me down that rabbit hole. I know what you're doing-you goad me, shift the focus off you, we end up throwing a few punches, which is probably what you want-"

"Why would I want that?"

"Why would you shoot up my room?"

"To help you!"

"By attacking me?"

"You think I want to fight you?"

"I think you're unraveling, Dean!" And that was it. That was Sam's tether snapping. His shout thundered over Dean's. He'd forgotten just how explosive, how intimidating, his own rage could sound when vented without warning.

And with his focus fixed on Dean, he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. His brother reacted as if he had been decked. He stumbled backward into the half-size fridge, looking confused, almost frightened. Sam didn't dare speak, because if he spoke, he would take it back, he would apologize, and as much as he wanted to do that, he knew that he couldn't. He couldn't allow himself to defer to his big brother this time, to placate him. His big brother didn't need to be comforted. He needed to be stopped.

Sam just wasn't sure he was the person for the job.

And so silence stretched uncomfortably, until it was finally broken by Dean's uncharacteristically timid voice. "You think I'm crazy?" he asked. Then, recalibrating slightly, but just as timidly: "You … think I'm crazy?"

"Well, I've always thought that," Sam replied. Trying for levity.

But Dean was deadly serious. "Then, what, I'm-burnt out? Can't do the job?"

"The job? This isn't about th-"

"What then?"

Sam inhaled a deep breath and slowly released it. He seemed to be doing lots of deep breathing since his brother's arrival. And then he set his gaze gently on him. Dean was waiting, patiently, maybe fearfully of the answer. He looked desperately tired. Sam worried that what he said next might be more than he could handle right now, more than he could hear. But it had to be said. He chose his words carefully, measuring them out slowly, his eyes never leaving his brother's. "I think the last six months have taken a heavier toll on you than I've wanted to see. I think we've suffered too many hits … too many losses … Both of us. And I'm not saying I'm great at it, or that I've got anything figured out, but I've at least been trying to deal with it."

"And I don't?" Dean was glowering at him. Timidity gone, anger back. It was a switch of stunning speed.

"You mean drowning yourself in Johnny Walker and revenge fantasies?"

"Been great catching up. I'm outta here."

He was heading for the door as Sam caught his arm. "No, you're not."

"Get off me!" Dean shouted, wrenching free with a force that shoved Sam back backward. As he reached for the door-apparently ditching the bag and the weapon he brought with him-Sam regained his footing and lunged at him, knocking them both off-balance and sideways against the dining table. It might have turned into the full-on fight that Sam had been trying to avoid, if not for Dean's exhaustion and frayed mind-state. He was simply too wrecked to fight effectively. He managed to throw a miscalculated punch or two, but Sam easily ducked them and landed in front of the door, back pressed firmly against it, completely blocking Dean's exit. Dean hovered in front of him now, sweaty and out of breath, eyes darting wildly to either side of Sam as if to find a crack he might slip through.

"I can't let you leave, Dean," Sam said.

"There's nothing wrong with me," his brother protested raggedly.

"Then you'll have no problem holing up here, ordering some take-out, getting some rest. Because that's what we do after a hunt. Right?" It seemed like perfect reasoning to Sam.

Dean turned away, perhaps realizing he'd lost this one. He was visibly struggling now. A shaky hand went to his forehead, rubbing at both temples. His chest rose and fell in heavy, erratic breaths. And he couldn't seem to stand still, as if some frenetically charged energy were rippling through his body, causing odd little jerks from his limbs, keeping him wired even in his exhaustion, refusing him rest. As Sam watched him with steadily mounting concern, it occurred to him that he'd never seen his brother look so close to complete breakdown.

"Take it easy, Dean," he soothed, edging closer as he spoke. "Everything's okay. Really. We're on the same side, remember? Just … breathe. Alright?" He once again had the impression that he was cornering a wounded animal that might just as easily rip his face off as yield to his coaxing.

Not that it mattered. This was Dean. He would do whatever it took.

He realized then that Dean was trying to follow his suggestion, he was struggling to take a deep breath, and not quite managing it.

"It's okay," Sam said.

"Stop saying that. Nothing's okay."

"Dean-"

"Hasn't been since…" He stopped, huffed a humorless laugh. "Oh that's right. It's never been." He dragged a hand over his face. "I don't think I even know what okay is. But what I do know, Sammy?" He looked up at Sam, imploringly. "What I do know is I need to get back out there. I need to get back to work. Because they're waiting … Monsters aren't gonna gank themselves, are they?"

A weird little smile quirked across his lips as he started pacing again. "And I've got the mother of them all to kill, don't I. Evilest motherfucker in the land. The one that took Bobby away from us…" His smile faltered. "…the one that took Cas…" His voice fell. "…and wrecked my car…" He looked away from Sam. "…and took everything that I…" His voice broke there, breath hitching, and he stood still.

"That you what?" Sam asked gently.

Dean lowered his head. Sam could see that he was shaking, that he was desperately trying to hold himself together, and hold back the torrent of emotion that was clearly more terrifying to him than any of the monsters they hunted had ever been. For God's sake, Sam thought, just let go.

"Don't stop," he said instead in a small plea.

"You need to get out of my way." Dean looked up at him now, his expression darkening, all traces of vulnerability swept aside. "Before I hurt you."

Sam smiled at him affectionately. "You won't hurt me."

Dean smiled back, but without affection, and without humor. "Well, I'm unraveling. I might do anything."

"I'll take my chances."

"Why won't you let me go?" Dean exploded.

Sam regarded him evenly, and was surprised at how calm, how utterly un-reactive he felt. Only a few minutes ago he'd wanted to throttle his brother. But it wasn't the same lack of response, suppression of feeling, he'd been aware of in his interactions with his Lucifer phantasm. This was much different. Completely opposite. This was a depth and richness of feeling he'd been cutting himself off from for too long, this was the connection between him and Dean that had carried him through the roughest times of his life, that allowed him a clarity of thought and a quieting of fear, a kind of grace, and he'd forgotten just how powerful it could be. Looking at his brother now, wanting nothing more than to help him and somehow believing he'd figure out how, he held on tight to that grace.

He said simply, "Because you're a trainwreck, you moron. And I'm your brother."

Dean considered the response. Nodded. Then he swept an arm across the kitchenette counter and smashed everything resting on it to the floor. A plastic plate, a glass, a cheap-looking vase holding a fake daisy, and the whiskey bottle respectively clattered, chipped, broke and shattered against the hard tiles. Dean moved next to the dining table, grabbed it from the underside and vehemently overturned it. Sam winced as he watched his laptop crash to the floor beneath a clutter of newspapers, his notebook journal, an assortment of pens, and yet another glass.

Dean slumped into stillness then, leaning against the counter, head down, arms wrapped around himself as if to control the shaking, out of breath again, and somehow looking even more depleted than before. Sam took another small stab at levity. "Something I said?"

No response from Dean.

"You know," Sam said, easily, casually, "between you shooting up the walls and trashing the furniture, it's a good thing this place is such a dive and the manager's such a drunk, or there'd be cops banging down our door by now. How are you doing, Dean?"

"I'm just … peachy," his brother mumbled, without looking up.

"Yeah." Sam found himself wondering what was so terrible about taking a night off from the hunt, about being here in this room, that Dean was so desperate to escape. But of course it wasn't about the hunt-Dean surely knew he was at the point of collapse-and it wasn't the room-it was just another featureless room, offering nothing more nefarious than a roof and two beds (and a TV set that talked to him, all Lucifer, all the time …).

Oh. That could be it. Maybe it wasn't that Dean couldn't allow himself to rest, it was that he couldn't do it here. With Sam. In Crazytown. Where the lunatics were running the asylum.

Sam's grace canted slightly.

He drifted over to his brother, once again closing the space between them, and lightly touched his shoulder.

Dean flinched. A reasonable response when one of the inmates makes a grab for you, Sam thought.

"It's okay, just me …" he said, quashing the thought. "Sit down for a minute? Please?"

Dean shot him a helpless glare, then redirected the glare at the nearest bed. After a moment of consideration he reluctantly shuffled over to it. He didn't so much sit as collapse onto it, slumping, head down, elbows propped on his knees, one leg juddering anxiously-but just at the edge, as if to assert this as only a temporary measure. Sam sat across from him on the adjacent bed.

"You know, I was doing alright with the whole Lucifer thing. I was handling it. And then we lost Bobby …" Dean tentatively glanced up at him now, the judder subsiding. "I think Bobby was my breaking point. He was the first loss that felt like … like part of me died too. The part that cared enough to keep fighting, keep hunting. When he died I just …" Sam shrugged, "stopped being that person. And started going through the motions of being that person. Pretending like what we do matters, without ever feeling it. It's amazing how long a hunter can go on like that, and manage to stay alive, you know?" Sam met his brother's eyes now, met the profound sadness there, and the fear just beneath it. Not for himself, Sam knew; it was the fear of losing his little brother.

"So as of tonight," he said slowly as the idea formed, hearing the truth of his words even as they took shape into a resolution, "as of right now, I'm done with it."

Dean watched him fully now, emotion flooding his eyes as fear intensified into dread. "Done with … what?"

Sam could see that Dean didn't understand, and it seemed more important than ever to make himself clear. He leaned closer, feeling the urgency of his words as they spilled out. "I'm done pretending, Dean. I'm not going to spend the rest of my life, however brief it might be, as this empty freakin' shell who just passively goes through the motions. I have to find my way back. We both do. And I'll eventually get there, I know I will, but I think I'm gonna need your help."

He searched Dean's eyes, looking for any opening, any chink, in the dead-bolted, mine-laden blockade of his brother's defense structure. "And I know you need mine."

Dean scoffed lightly and glanced away, blinking back tears.

"The thing is, what we do does matter. And no one's better at it than you and me. That's why we've got to get our shit together, Dean. We're the front line, and we're indispensable. No one knew that better than Bobby."

Dean stared at the floor. Quietly he said, "We both miss him."

Sam watched him, weighing his thoughts, gauging the moment. "He wasn't your breaking point though, was he. Yours was further back."

"I never broke, Sam."

"Yours was Cas."

Dean's head snapped up. He fired a stunned, daggered look at Sam as if he'd just been physically struck by him, his expression a mix of contempt, disgust, and … something that made no sense to Sam. Something like shame.

Softly, but determined, Sam continued. "And you have to talk about it."

"Oh, is it my turn to share now?" Dean spat with bristling sarcasm. He started to rise then, but Sam seized his wrist and roughly pulled him back down. Dean seemed too taken off guard to react.

"Been your turn a long time now, bro. How many times over the last year alone have I begged you to talk to me? About as many times as you've blown me off, ya think?"

Dean tried to pull away, but Sam tightened his grip and leaned even closer.

"Whatever it is that's ripping you to shreds-grief, guilt, rage, knowing you, probably the combo platter-whatever it is, it's time you face it. You're not alone here. I'm right here beside you, and you are not shutting me out this time. I won't let you."

And he abruptly released Dean's wrist.

Dean stared back at him silently, looking utterly trapped now. And frightened of his brother. (And it literally made Sam's heart ache, but he couldn't let his resolve weaken now.) His brow was furrowed by uncertainty, by questions competing for his voice, until one finally won out.

"What the hell happened to you while I was gone, Sam?"

"I got my priorities in order. Don't change the subject."

In a tone taut with exasperation, Dean asked, "But why are you doing this?"

It was Sam's turn to be caught off guard. He simply stared back at Dean for a long moment. It had to be the craziest thing Sam had heard today. And Sam had heard a lot of crazy things. "Seriously?"

He tried to smile, and found his vision rippling with tears. He struggled for the right words as he spoke, and as emotion threatened to derail them.

"I'm looking at you right now, Dean … and I don't know where the hell you are. I haven't really since … well, since Cas. But lately it's gone way beyond that, and I don't … All I know is that you're not here. And it …" He felt the muscles in his jaw clench. Historically the end to that sentence had always been scares me. But it didn't fit this time.

Dean's attention was fixed on him with fierce intensity. He was really listening. Sam didn't know when he'd have another moment like this.

"It pisses me off. You know? I won't lose you too. Not you. So what I'm saying is, Dean, you either let me help you find your way back, or I swear to God, I'll claw my way into your head and I'll fucking drag you back."

He wiped a hand across his face to clear the tears and waited for his brother's response. Dean was still watching him, visibly shaken by what Sam had said, but perhaps even more by the fierceness and determination he said it with. And while he seemed calmer now, and maybe it was just the calm before the storm, Sam could see he was brimming with emotions he clearly couldn't manage.

It was with enormous effort that Dean finally spoke, hesitant and stammering and lost in sorrow. "S-Sammy, I … you know I'll do anything for you, right?"

Sam winced slightly at the choice of phrase, the memory of its last use far too fresh.

"… But I … some things I …" He looked down at his feet. Such innocuous words, and every one seemed torture to him. "… can't … just … talk about…"

Sam was watching his brother drown. It was as if the sheer weight of undisclosed, unacknowledged feelings had wrapped around his ankles and was dragging him under. And it was all Sam could do to keep from throwing him a line. Telling him it was okay, he didn't have to do this, he didn't have to talk about anything … Hell, he didn't even have to be here, he could go on back to his hunt, back to the job he was on, and they could shove this under the nearest rug and forget all of it ever happened, just another uncomfortable memory they never had to talk about, and the Winchesters were damn good at that, they could just go back to cold, crippling silence, maybe make the distance between them insurmountable this time.

Sam wouldn't be throwing his brother a line.

"I'm just asking you to try."

"I'm not like you."

"You can do this."

"I can't."

"You can."

"Please, Sam-"

"Just try."

"Not now-please-not now, Sammy-" The cracks in what little remained of Dean's composure were fanning out and multiplying, like a pane of fractured glass about to shatter. Sam thought of the risk he'd taken in confronting his own hallucinations, his own breach of sanity, and he knew he was taking the same risk now, except it was by force this time. It was an unplanned intervention, and it was against Dean's will. And maybe this wasn't right. Maybe it was even dangerous. Maybe he should pull back …

"Why not now?" he pushed.

"Because I can't! You've got too much to deal with! You've got problems of your own! And I-I came here to help you-"

"We've been over that-"

"No!" He leapt to his feet. "No, you don't get it! I don't know how to help you! But what I won't do-I can't risk-in front of you-Sam-I can't …" Fissures chasing and interlacing with each other, the surface buckling. "… unravel …"

It was as if the word itself, his brother's word, said now with such vehemence and utter self-loathing, drained the last of his emotional resources, the last of whatever strength he had left. He collapsed back onto the bed, head down, eyes shut against the world, tears overwhelming his defenses. But instead of breaking down, he was shutting down. Sam had seen it countless times before, just never quite as dramatically as now. In a low, graveled pitch, barely above a whisper that Sam strained to hear, he said, "I can't fall apart, can't do that to you, can't do that to you I can't I can't …"

And there it was. The reason Dean had launched an all-out, no-holds-barred offensive against his brother in order to get away from him tonight. "That's what this is about? You're afraid of …"

It was so obvious now that Sam felt blind for not seeing it himself. It should have been a no-brainer. Dean's enshrined duty to protect and put first his little brother's wellbeing meant he'd fight hell and high water to prevent him witnessing the detonation of his own. Especially now, when Sam was so … frail, he thought. Even if Dean didn't realize the full extent of his little brother's recent spiral into psychosis, that must be how he viewed him. Hell, less than an hour ago, it was how Sam viewed himself.

"Dean, look at me," he gently urged, putting a hand on his brother's forearm. "C'mon, man. Look up. Look at me." Dean peered up at him hesitantly, squinting slightly, as if looking into a bright light. "All I care about is that you talk to me. That you let me in. If you happen to fall apart in the process, you know what? Not a big deal. Falling apart's been my job for the last five days, I'm happy to let you have it for a while. It's really okay with me. And you know what? Whatever happens, I'll be here. Right by your side. We'll put you back together. Deal?"

For a while there was no reply. Dean just stared him, frowning, puzzling over Sam's words. He seemed to be having trouble absorbing them. Sam tilted his head slightly, raised his eyebrows, expectantly.

Dean finally managed to stammer, "Last five days …? You? F-falling … Sammy, wh…?"

Sam realized dismally that all his brother had heard there was falling apart's been my job, and that innate need to protect Sam, which served as one of his best defense mechanisms, was vaulting into place.

"No, no. No. Don't you do that. This is not about me. Don't make this about me."

"What happened here?"

"Dean-"

"Just tell me what's going on with you," Dean ordered, sounding more himself than he had since he'd bashed Sam's door in. The mechanism already shifting into overdrive.

Sam sat back slightly, folded his arms over his chest. "You first."

It was a small wrench thrown into the mechanism, but a wrench nonetheless. And it probably only worked because, in recent weeks, both of them had become used to Sam's easy compliance, his aversion to confrontation. Especially with his brother. It had become the norm. And under different circumstances-that is, circumstances in which Dean were not the target of his brother's newfound confidence-turned-tough-love tactics-Sam knew his brother would have applauded the change.

But now, here tonight, Dean looked lost again. "Sam, I … I told you … I … I can hardly think straight right now, let alone dredge up …" His head dropped and he pleaded, "Don't make me do this now."

"Dean, all I'm asking-"

And then he looked up sharply. "Ask me for something else. Anything else."

Sam didn't have a chance to respond before Dean launched swiftly, and more than a little desperately, into his explanation. "You want me to stay? I'll stay. Want to order food, we'll have dinner. I'll clean up the mess I made, I'll sweep up the glass, I'll dig bullets out of the freakin' walls, I'll-"

"You'll do anything I ask."

Silence stretched uneasily for a moment, as Sam actually considered the offer, and as Dean realized that he might be able to negotiate his way out of what felt to him like an impossible situation. There was relief in his voice, and utter sincerity, as he confirmed, "Anything."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Sam pinned him with his gaze. "You promise."

Dean met the gaze with painful honesty. "If it helps you. Yes."

Sam sighed. He knew it was a compromise, and it clashed with the part of him that wanted to hold firm, stay strong for his brother even as it tore him apart. But there were other considerations here. Maybe other ways through this. And maybe now, as Dean kept plaintively insisting, really wasn't the best time to start peeling back the latest layers of his brother's damage.

There was always tomorrow.

Sam stood to his feet and placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Okay. Well, there is one thing. And it will help me."

And then he reached under his own bed and pulled out a weather-beaten canvas knapsack, his own. He carried it with him to the kitchen, carefully stepping over shards of glass and thick puddles of Jack Daniels, and began rifling through its contents on the counter. He deliberately kept his back to Dean as he retrieved what he'd been searching for, then pulled the last unbroken glass from a cupboard and filled it with water from the tap. He could feel Dean's eyes boring into his back as he waited, and figured he was already regretting the promise.

Sam returned to their adjacent beds and sat back down with the glass of water and a small prescription-labeled vial of pills in his hands. He pushed the glass into Dean's hand, then untwisted the child-proof cap and tipped two small white capsules into his own hand. He looked up into Dean's wide eyes and extended his hand to him.

"I want you to take these."

Dean bristled. "What are they?"

Sam considered candor for an instant; then, remembering an exchange between them from long ago, changed his mind. "Effective," he said, as Dean had said then to him.

Dean looked alarmed now. He set the water on the floor at his feet. "Forget it."

"You just promised me, Dean."

"You're not drugging me, Sam."

"Okay, here's the thing," Sam said, enjoying the feeling of quiet determination that had somehow been reawakened in him tonight. "You're clearly in no shape to make a rational decision for yourself right now, so I'm narrowing the choices down for you. You're either gonna talk to me, or you're gonna sleep. Your choice."

Dean was halfway to his feet when Sam clamped a heavy hand to his shoulder and pushed him back down. "What you're not going to do is leave, I thought we already covered that. So help me, Dean, you make another move, I'll cuff you to the bed."

"You wouldn't dare."

"You wanna try me?"

Dean stared at him first with bewilderment, as if struggling to figure out who he was exactly, then with wide-eyed panic. Then he shot a desperate look out the nearest window, where the glow of a streetlight glinted off the chrome bumper of his rental.

"You won't make it as far as the door."

An odd little whinnying noise escaped Dean's throat. "You know I hate taking drugs," he whined.

"Which is why I made you promise first."

"Jesus, Sam," sighed Dean, shifting into a different tact. "What the hell? I mean, what the hell happened to you?"

"I already told you." Dean was stalling. He knew that. He wouldn't let it last long.

"Priorities in order, right. And that's supposed to make sense? I mean, c'mon, since when haven't we been each other's first priority?"

The question sent all of Sam's thoughts skidding to a halt. It stirred a sudden ache of emptiness deep in his gut, a physical sensation, hollow and unsettled. And there was a lump in his throat that he swallowed back. "For quite a while now. I think you know that."

Dean looked down, and Sam looked away.

Neither of them spoke for what seemed a very long time. Sam found himself wishing, for the second time that night, that he hadn't said what he'd just said. However true it may have been, it had sounded to his ears unintentionally harsh, even accusatory, and he wanted very much to take that part of it back. But the words kept sinking into that hollow emptiness inside of him. And when he eventually looked back at Dean, he knew it was too late anyway.

Dean was in his own very dark place. He was staring ahead into vacant space, his eyes were filled with tears and his face looked ashen. His lower lip trembled. He looked exposed. Like he'd just been found guilty of some horrible crime. When he spoke, his voice carried both the resignation and the self-reproach of a confession. "I haven't known how to help you," he said very softly. "I'm losing you more every day, and … there's not a damn thing I can do."

And then he looked down again, his eyes shutting against the tears. Almost inaudibly he added, "And it's killing me."

Sam desperately wanted to say the right thing, but he wasn't sure what it was. So he said the one thing he was certain of right then. "I know it is."

And he rested his hand on Dean's hunched shoulder, felt the light vibration of the tears his brother couldn't contain now. He expected Dean to shrug the hand away, but he didn't.

After awhile, after he'd regained control, he cleared his throat, shook his head a little, and said gruffly, in a far more confident pitch, "Good. So maybe … maybe you'll let me be useful. Let me get the hell outta here."

Sam laughed in disbelief.

"I'm no use here, Sam, but out there-"

"You just don't quit, do you!"

"Pot and kettle, Sam," Dean growled. "You're like a pitbull with a bone!"

"You're in way over your head with the metaphors there, dude. And you're stalling. Make a choice."

"Oh, c'mon, you're still on this? You've got to be kidding me."

"I'm deadly serious."

Dean wore the expression of a sullen, defiant teenager. "But I've been talking to you!"

"And you get points for effort." Sam was enjoying this again.

"… And?"

"And it's a good start. I'm proud of you."

"A start?" If looks could kill, Sam knew he would be a steaming rubble heap in Dean's glare.

"Yeah, Dean. A start. But we've got all night. Is that your choice?"

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!"

"Still deadly serious," Sam said, suppressing a grin. The capsules felt warm and a little sticky in his palm, but they were still intact.

The look Dean gave him now was a combination of abject exasperation and utter exhaustion. He'd actually expected Sam to thank him for the chat and send him on his way. Sam would have found it funny if his brother didn't look so genuinely broken.

"C'mon, Sammy, don't make me do this, I'm just too fucking …" He trailed off, either unable-or suddenly unwilling-to finish the sentence.

"…tired? I'm not surprised. You need to sleep, Dean."

Dean groaned.

"But it's entirely your call." He opened his hand to Dean again.

"You're unbelievable," Dean grumbled miserably. "You're seriously gonna roofie me because I won't cry on your shoulder? I should have known it would eventually come to this…"

"You should have known not to make me a promise you didn't intend to keep."

Dean glowered at him, stung, and unable to escape the brutal logic of the retort. It was a good one, Sam knew. He would congratulate himself later on it.

Dean's gaze dropped bitterly to the capsules in Sam's hand, and Sam could see his mind working, pondering, plotting. After a long pause, he sighed. Reluctantly, he retrieved the glass of water still sitting by his feet.

"Fine," he said, and he reached for the pills.

"Wait," said Sam, and he snatched them back. And Dean looked on helplessly and with smoldering indignation as his little brother carefully pulled open each capsule and released its powdery contents into Dean's glass.

"Just want to make sure they go down. It's not that I don't trust you …" He took the glass from Dean's hand and gave it a little swirl, making sure the powder was well dissolved. "Well no. Actually it is." And he offered the glass back to him.

Dean just stared at him, seething, and not taking the glass.

"Drink up, Dean," Sam said gently.

"This is so stupid."

"Drink up."

"It's not like I'm-"

"Dean."

Dean snatched the water, knocked it back, then hurled the empty glass violently toward the kitchenette counter, where it shattered and fell amongst all the other shattered things.

Sam blew out a small breath. "Thank you."

"I hate you."

"I feel it."

And then it was like a Mexican standoff. They just stared at each other, waiting for the other to speak or to move first. It was Sam who finally gave in. "You know that was our last glass, right?"

"Bite me."

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