Sequel to A Short History of Contract Law. Now massively AU. No Ruby, Sam went to Hell instead of Dean... you know, I think you'll just have to read that one first? It's short.

Disclaimer: I own only Cletus, and I don't particularly want to. Don't sue!

Frontier Psychiatry

After leaving the hospital, Sam slept in the passenger seat, twitching occasionally. At the first gas station Dean stopped. Sam woke up – loudly – and proceeded to freak the fuck out.

"Ahhhggh!" And Sam pulled this giant fucker of a knife – Dean had no idea he even had it – all the while staring down this thirteen year old girl eating a pack of gummi worms with his Hannibal Lector-calibre death glare.

The situation was difficult to explain to the kid's dad. And the traffic cop. Even for a semi-professional silver-tongued explainer of strange shit (in the 'not getting arrested' category).

Driving on, Dean racked his brains for a quiet hideout. Sam's recovery seemed like it might be kinda – antisocial.

There was a cabin in the woods of the Appalachian mountains, owned by an old, ask-no-questions Libertarian redneck who sold ammo at cut rates for cash only. Dean handled booking in, which basically meant going to the guy's house (no phone, 'cause of the govmint bugs 'em), sipping some moonshine with him, and leaving a coupla hundred in unmarked bills.

"Well shee-ut, boh, less git movin'." Dean picked up accents like summer colds, imitating Cletus to perfection.

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

"Like what?"

"I nearly knifed that kid." Oh Jesus, here came the face. The guilty face. The Puppy-messed-the carpet-and-ate-your-leg face. Was that a break in Sam's voice?

"And you feel very bad about that. Ok, all done. The path's that way."

"I'm serious, Dean, I thought I was better but-"

"Outside world means new stuff, s'gonna trigger flashbacks, or whatever. Just like the hospital used to, but you got past that and you'll get past this too. You can't come out of the psych ward and expect everything to be instantly fine."

"Who are you trying to convince?" Sam said softly.

"Could we do this inside? There are bugs the size of a truck in these here woods and it's getting cold. Cabin's that way."

Sam tried to pick up one of the bags, nearly dislocating his shoulder.

"Did you pack... rocks? Is this some kind of training exercise?" He opened it. "Psychiatric Theory and Practice, A Field Guide to PTSD... you bought textbooks?"

"I borrowed textbooks. University library wasn't using them right then, so..."

"You stole them?" Sam picked up the other bag and walked slowly into the woods.

"To each according to his need. Read the Bible, Sammy." Dean assumed a sanctimonious expression. Sam snorted, but wasn't sidetracked.

"What are you going to do, hit me with them?"

"Like you always used to tell me, we need to do some research. Can't take you to a real doctor, so you get me." He grinned cockily, trying to convey confidence he didn't feel.

"Home psychiatry? This isn't like stitching up a gash in the head." Sam sounded incredulous.

"It can't make things any worse."

There was a long silence, filled only with the sound of boots tramping up the overgrown path.

"Not that you're that bad."

Silence, of a slightly decreased temperature.

"I mean, you've stopped zoning out, and you're sleeping a bit less, and you hardly ever get the shakes... Oh, look, it's the cabin." Dean sent up a heartfelt prayer of gratitude. Awkward.

SNSNSNSNSN

Sam still slept a lot, still woke up gasping for breath or yelling or painfully tense. When he was awake, he wandered in the woods, leaving the gun Dean gave him under a rock beside the cabin. He stopped carrying the knife too, but stashed weaponry all round the two-room building throughout the next week. The Winchester version of settling in, perhaps. He shared the thought with Dean, shared the laugh, and then spoiled it again.

"You got cut!?"

Dean followed Sam's gaze to the nick in his thumb. A little blood welled up at the knuckle, a bead of crimson against the tan.

"I was chopping onions-" His explanation died as Sam ran for the first aid kit. "What? It's nothing."

"Sure." Sam agreed distractedly, as he swaddled the thumb in enough gauze for a broken arm.

"Sam, you've gone a little wacky again."

"Oh. Right." He dropped Dean's hand, feeling himself colour with embarrassment. "Sorry."

The blood gets – got - everywhere, a drop quickly turning into a stream, a flood, drying to fill the air with scabby flakes that entered the lungs and choked you.

"Blood is bad."

"Yeah...?"

"It creeps into you and stops you breathing. Except here it doesn't."

"No. Here it doesn't do that." Sam looked up at Dean's face, afraid of what he might find there. Pity, mockery, revulsion for the puling, weak-minded idiot who'd replaced his brother. He saw nothing but Dean stating the obvious. Here, you don't drown in other people's blood.

"This is hard." He sad quietly, almost unaware of having spoken, before pulling himself together. Normal. You are on Earth. Act normally. "So, what's for dinner?"

"Uh... Stir-fry. Sam, when-"

"Cool. I was getting sick of mac and cheese." He jogged off into the trees to calm down in private, leaving Dean sitting on a rock with an unanswered question.

SNSNSNSNSN

Dean watched Sam lope off, looking like the graduating class of West Point Academy. Happy Sam slouched. Brooding Sam hunched. Stressed Sam had parade ground military bearing that would make General MacArthur weep onto his pipe.

He went back to the cabin, head spinning. Sam just... one minute fine, and the next... Choking on blood? What else?...and then shutting down, pretending nothing had happened.

The stupid stoic thing. Dean had invented the stoic thing and felt obscurely angry at having it used against him. He rubbed a hand over his face, wiping away the feeling of failure. He could do this. Forcing Sam into a heart-to-heart – and wasn't that a weird concept – couldn't be that hard. Except he didn't know if that was the right thing to do. Would reliving Hell clean out the wound, or just tear open the stitches?

Can I even handle the truth about what he went through for me? Suck it up, Winchester, freaked out or not you help Sammy. Order number one.

Sam came in and fell straight onto the mat, sleeping the catatonic slumber of the exhausted.

Okay, later then. But I will say something. I will.

SNSNSNSNSN

As night fell Bobby came in all guns blazing, or at least loaded, cocked and aimed. The quiet domestic scene in front of him was not what he had expected.

Sam was dozing on one of the sleeping mats that passed for beds, curled round a pillow. A mug of coffee cooled on the floor beside him. Dean was cooking a stir-fry on the hob in the corner, quietly, competently and barefoot.

When Bobby burst in, he only had a moment to see this. Sam jerked awake like a landed fish at the noise, and reached under the mat for a hunting knife in the same movement as rolling onto the floor and behind the bathroom door. Dean's stir-fry tipped onto the floor, knocked over by his elbow as he pulled a handgun from the small of his back and dropped onto one knee.

There was an exquisite moment of silence as everyone re-evaluated the situation.

"Bobby! Not that it's not great to see you, but maybe you could put the gun down."

"Dean. Likewise."

"Hey, Bobby."

"Sam. You're looking less dead that I expected."

"Can't keep a good man down."

"True, but I don't reckon you're a man or good. No offence."

Did he just call Sam a girl? A bad girl? No, zombie. I think he meant zombie.

Did he just imply that I'm... Oh right, revenant.

Did I just talk like Sam's an evil woman? Shit. Don't laugh, Singer. Undead. Not funny.

"He's legit, Bobby, swear to God. Could drink a little holy water if you have it."

"That would be right nice of you."

Holy water drunk by all, and theatrically used as a cologne by Dean, Bobby lowered the shotgun and commenced to tearing Dean a new one.

"What in blazes-" Sam pushed past him. "Sam, you ain't off the hook yet. Get back here. Either of you comes back from the dead, you call me!"

"I'm sorry Bobby, I gotta get some air."

"Let him go."

Sam stopped about twenty yards from the cabin and crouched down, head between his knees. Even in the twilight Bobby could see his shoulders heaving.

"What's that about?"

"You obviously have some questions."

"Which would be why I asked them. I was worried about you, Dean."

"I'm sorry, okay? I'll tell you everything. Take the load off. We got some beers."

"Don't try 'n butter me up with alcohol, Winchester. What did you do?"

"Hey, don't look at me. This is all on Sam."

"Who is outside-"

"-Having a panic attack. You spooked him. It happens."

Dean laid out the long and short of it, glancing out of the window every few seconds to where Sam stood. Bobby followed his gaze, seeing Sam staring unblinking at the rising moon, breathing ragged and shoulders rigid. When Dean ground to a halt, Bobby let it sink in, rolling it around in his head.

"Hell of a thing."

"Yep. You want some dinner? I make a mean macaroni cheese."

"What are you going to do now?"

"Look after him. Get him better. Move on." Dean cracked a brilliant, tarnished smile. "Easy as blinking."