A/N: I like being mean to Sam (:}) and the whole demon blood fiasco is a perfect opportunity. Spoilers for season(s) 4&5. I decided that while waiting for season 11 to return I'd write something set a lot earlier, so here is what I produced from my brain that only honestly functions properly about ten percent of the time. The other 90% is embarrassing waffling and listening to Bon Jovi. I have no shame. None.

Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, Supernatural, or even a dog that resembles a hellhound. No, he's a dachshund, and a lot less intimidating. And I'm pretty sure hellhounds don't pee on the Christmas tree when it's put up.

He didn't remember what he had done to be locked in the panic room again. Demon blood, he assumed- but memory was so fleeting that he couldn't grasp one and latch onto it like he probably could have done easily the day before.

Or maybe it was two days.

He didn't remember.

Sam sighed, legs curling up to his chest while two things happened: he leaned his head back on the cool metal of the makeshift asylum, and felt the fever creep up his arms and neck, burning, ravaging his throat. It broke a sweat on his forehead that he didn't wipe off, because he was too tired. He was so tired, in fact, that even blinking felt like a thousand worlds crashing down onto his eyes, and breathing sent molten tendrils of fiery pain through his lungs. They strung themselves around his heart and squeezed, hard, every time he coughed.

So he didn't cough.

Didn't make a sound, actually, and almost felt enough emotion to be proud of that. This time there was no yelling for Dean, no angry screaming at his hallucinations because what they told him hurt and hurt bad, no nothing.

Nothing at all.

Just silence.

Maybe, he thought, frown trembling on his mouth before dissolving at the effort. Maybe the quiet is louder.

He stopped thinking for a moment, listened to the sound of no sound and swallowed. The fan above his head sliced the air methodically, noise so subtle it may as well not have been there. The floor strained out in front of him, cold and gray. The bed in the middle of the room wouldn't creak unless he sat on it.

Sam blinked through the red haze.

Yeah. The silence was definitely louder, and two hours later, Dean had the same thought.

He paused, sloshing Jack Daniels around in his bottle briefly, eyes following the golden alcohol stream up the glass and then back down again, catching the light of the lamp next to him and taking it with it down to the bottom. Bobby looked at him from the desk, a second glance warranted when Dean only narrowed his eyes instead of taking a swig or saying something he thought might lighten whatever mood this had become.

Correction- they had become.

"What, Dean?" Bobby asked, voice coated carefully with gruff curiosity. After a moment, Dean shook his head.

"I don't know." he answered truthfully, and sat up, elbows on his knees, drink between them, too. He sloshed it again and bit his lip.

What, Dean?

What, Dean, indeed.

"I'm gonna check on Sam." he whispered to the floor, realizing that was what had made him stop. It was the lack of noise that had been going on for far too long, the eerie calm that permeated throughout the house and shot a shiver up his spine.

Sam.

"Again?"

He looked up- no, glared up, at Bobby, about to snap, yes, again, and I'll check on him as many damn times as I see fit, because that isn't a monster, it's Sammy, and he wouldn't hurt anyone, ever.

Dean took a deep breath.

Well, save for demons.

And angels.

Bobby kept looking at him, eyes hooded halfway by his raggety baseball cap, left hand still curved around a newspaper.

Witches.

Wendigos.

Ghosts.

People, sometimes.

And-

Dean snapped back to reality, chastising himself because it wasn't Sam's fault.

Because there was a difference between Sam and Sammy, a big gaping hole between lethal hunter and little brother.

Sammy had soft eyes and a sad smile and hair that Dean liked to tease him for. Sammy was awkward in all the wrong places, and called Dean a jerk and bought embarrassing drinks at restaurants like vanilla lattes, and complained about the music in the Impala when he really didn't mind so much and only said he did for the banter that held them together.

Sam kept a knife in his jacket since no one was to be trusted, set his eyes to be cold and hard and wore a smile that was forced, hair that was too straight and kempt. Sam wasn't all that awkward, because when he was Sam he was usually stabbing or shooting something. Sam didn't call Dean a jerk, and drank water.

But he still complained about the music.

"Dean?" Bobby prompted, head leaning forward a bit. Dean forgot whatever snide retort he'd almost made, and nodded.

"I'm gonna go check on Sammy." he repeated. Except he wasn't saying the same thing.

"Yeah, I got that. But you just looked in on him a couple of hours ago. Isn't the point of this whole isolation thing to be sure your brother's isolated?"

The words didn't make it through his skull, like the sheet of bone was trying to block it out because it would only confirm that yes, Sam was locked up, yes, it was happening again, and yes, it would be another agonizingly long day and a half until Sam could come out.

But he had this feeling something wasn't right in his gut, and Dad always told him to go with his gut when his brain wouldn't work and his heart couldn't.

Something was wrong.

More than usual.

Dean didn't answer Bobby.

Dean stood up.

Put his unfinished beer on the table near the chair, not bothering to swipe away the mess of papers accumulated there.

Dean turned around.

Dean went to Sammy.