I have no comment, really nothing to say. I have no idea where the idea for this came from, how it got written, what is wrong with me that I keep hurting Sam, really, just huh.

This is un-betaed so all mistakes are mine and I apologize for them, I really do. I don't own anything, but a box of cookies. At least that's something, right? Well, coughs…

…enjoy.

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It's a voice you chase at first. A voice, deep and rough around the edges, smooth and dripping with concern…so unlike what it used to be. It's cutting into you like a knife, twisting a little when it's pushed deeper inside. You want to touch it, plunge it deeper and make it real. A voice isn't real, you can not touch it, but you can feel it. That clean, sharp edge of it.

It's like being under water, sounds vague and muted, but you can feel them. Settling inside of you, rumble in your chest, squeezing tightly, making your breath stop, just so you can hear it. No point in straining your ears, you just have to hold your breath and the sound will come to you…settle in you.

"Sam?"

So soft, a melody forgotten in daylight, coming alive in the darkness that you're in right now. Somewhere in the depths of your mind you know that sometimes that voice is nothing but annoying buzz around your ears. But right now, you don't want to squish the bug making it.

"Sammy!" so deep and so loud.

One word, three letters that choke you, make you feel dizzy, make you step one step closer.

Then it's the smell. Fast food and gun oil with a dash of deodorant and tooth paste. And some minty undertone.

"Sam!"

The warm breath caresses you, makes you feel it, makes you shiver, you breathe it in, involuntarily…yeah definitely tooth paste and burger. You would smile if you could find your mouth.

The smell of gel on spiked hair, the smell of leather that lingers on a T-shirt, that hasn't been washed in a while. You carry those scents with you wherever you go…home. They are what accompany you, day and night, day after day after day. You remember them, you know them and you know to whom they belong to…home.

The tingle of sweat that can be detected beneath the deodorant, gives you a weird feeling of trespassing…on someone else's ground. But then a second later you realize that you're not invading someone's privacy…you're invading your brothers. You would chuckle if you could find your voice.

Hints of stale air, decay and mold hit you so bad, so strong that you can't breathe for a while. Everything mixes together, getting stronger and stronger until you think you're gonna throw up. And maybe you do, because there is that voice again.

"Sammy?! I gotcha, 's O.K."

You're just about to reach it, touch it with your hand and alongside with the smells, you're one step closer.

There is that sound again. Nagging at you, making your head hurt in places you're pretty sure you don't have a head. It's like a bug is flaying around your ears, something shifting near you, heavy sounds on the floor, going through your behind, up your spine…vibrating through you. Two feet with heavy boots and jeans on someone's legs bring you one step closer.

The taste in your mouth, you would swear to God's name that you have a dead something stuck in it. But you don't, it's just your mind playing tricks on you. Your tongue is heavy, so heavy…it's stuck somewhere between moving and being attached to the sky of your mouth. You wanna say something but the words…it's like you pinned them with your tongue. Besides, after contemplating with your brain you are certain that you don't know what you would say. All that combined with an urge to feel alive brings you one step closer.

Pitch black and not a light in sight…even when you force your legs to run after the voice, away from the smells, but still to them. You're confused…something smells bad, but at the same time something smells like home…you want to see what the smell of home looks like.

Here in the darkness, there is nothing. You want to extend your arm, but you're afraid what it'll hit. What if this, this black thing is small? Smaller than you feel right now? You wouldn't be able to survive that. So you stay still, but still running. And there it is again…the feeling of being confused. How can you run but still be still? You make yourself run faster, but you stay still slower. You're afraid, but you have to go and catch the voice, before it fades away. You don't wanna be stuck in a station with the rear end of the train laughing In. Your. Face. Looser. So you run, but are afraid to reach your hand out. Ironic, much?

"Sam, come on."

Running faster was worth it. It wasn't a three letter word now, it was a…huh, you're pretty sure you knew how to count at one point…longer word. Yeah, you can settle your mind with that.

But it's the touch that brings you back, that makes you open your eyes. A soft cares of fingers at your neck, pushing softly on your pulse point, pushing the artery into the bone a little. The warm tips of someone's fingers are gentle but persisting as they push at the delicate skin of your wrist.

"Sammy?"

A five letter word and you're excited that your ability to count came back to you. You could scream at the top of your voice, if you could detach your tongue from your teeth.

The mild touch grazes your forearm, you're sure you can feel the hair there stand to attention. Goosebumps follow the touch, going ahead of it after a while. You never knew how soothing a touch can be, how much it can contain. Warmth, almost melodious pressure that makes you want to run in the darkness forever.

"Sam, can you hear me?"

Don't stop talking, I don't wanna loose it. The magnetic rumble of the voice, bringing you one step closer…and a touch that made its home on your shoulder. Squeezing, prodding, digging…bringing to focus the light you knew was out there but was not able to believe. You extend your arm now, tired of running, tired of your breath catching in your lungs, tired of the pain in your sides…

You hit a wall, you knew this was gonna happen. You knew, you knew that it was a small space you were trapped in. You knew but you still did it. You craved for that touch, but the simple need, crippled you to do anything. You are alone, and the bravery, the need for a touch, the need to stop chasing the voice…made you lonely, because you Hit. A. Wall. Stupid.

And then the wall softens, grows warm, shifts. You almost sob a little at the contact, at the shattered image of being alone. You're not alone. Something wraps around your hand. It's so soft, but rough at the same time, such contrast. How something rough can be so soothing and gentle? You intertwine your long, slim fingers through someone else's and press. Hard. You want to feel it, need to feel it…the fingers that were checking for your life before…you think that once intertwined, they could give you the life they felt before. In you…around you.

"Sammy, hey. Open your eyes."

The voice became demanding somewhere along the way, you think. The vibrations in your heart changed...that's how you know. But still, the low almost subdued tang of fear was sent cursing through your veins with those words. Someone's scared.

You are so tired, exhausted really, the buzz in your head a constant reminder that you hurt, that you're deaf in the real world. You try your best to pry your eyes open, you do, you really do, but it's just so hard. It hurts so much, your eyelids feel like someone sew them together, but you know that's impossible. Right?

"Sam, come on, just open your eyes."

It's so hard to obey that panic driven voice, but you do. You would do anything that voice would tell you to do. Without a second thought.

You separate your eyelids, agonizingly slow, up, up, up. And when bright darkness envelops you, you almost choke again. It's just too much all at once and then you feel it…the soft lingering feeling on your neck, your wrist, your shoulder and the tight grip home has on your hand. Then you see it…a face with deep green eyes, like grass after a summer storm, peering at you, breaking you, and those freckles that stand out on a nose, cheeks.

Although the rest of the world is murky the face is clear as a bell.

"Dean?" almost shyly the word escapes your mouth, but you say it, you say the word you wanted to say all along. You have no idea why 'home' kept replacing it. You gasp and smile, stupid.

The touch moves to your cheeks, but you can still feel residues of it in your hand and on your shoulder. The touch mashes up your cheeks and the pressure tilts your head, eyes searching for something in your own, don't know what.

"You hit a wall. Concussion?" you feel the warmth on your cheeks, the touch that slides to your forehead, moving away stray hair, "definitely."

You hear a chuckle in there…jerk.

"Dean?" What? Something about hitting? What?

"You hit a wall. Again."

Yup, definitely a chuckle…you hope he'll choke on it, jerk.

"Dean." You detach your tongue, slip it out between your lips and speak. Your own voice is unfamiliar to you, sounding so alone in the mix of silence in the space.

"You have a thing for walls, Sammy. What can I say?"

The touch goes to your hand, you have no idea when it let go of your head and the grip tightens, gets sweaty and warm to the point of burning you.

"Let's get you up."

He almost throws you up on your feet, although you're very, very sure he was being very, very slow. Your knees are weak, your head heavy and you blink your eyes to see the floor.

Who made that mess?

Your hair falls into your eyes, and tickle your nose. You want to brush them away but you feel one of your hands in your brothers and the other around his shoulder. And your hair in your eyes is the last thing on your mind.

The smell, the touch, the voice…it all comes crashing into you when you hit a hard wall again. But this wall moves, up and down, and it has a noise inside of it. A soft tumptumptump and you close your eyes again…just to steady yourself. But then the darkness comes again and you snap them open. You don't want darkness; you are too tired to chase voices again and too fatigued to stand still.

"Sam?"

"Dean?" You slur out, barely moving your tongue. It's a weird feeling…being held up by your brother after you've been swimming in senses for the past five minutes.

"Come on, wall boy."

"Dean?" 'm I gonna be O.K.?

"Yeah, you'll be O.K., you'll be alright."

You just wanted to hear his voice…it hurt's in your head if the voice isn't there. You grip his T-shirt roughly, scraping skin in the process, but you can't care less. You need to feel something right now, something other than the pain in your back.

"Dean?" 'm gonna fall.

It's the only word that can come out of your mouth. The only word in the whole wide world that makes sense at the moment.

"Yeah, Sam, I gotcha. I'm not gonna let you nose dive, now come on."

And you need to hear something else than a buzz of dizziness that's made its peace inside your head. The rush of blood you feel running through you, running in you comes to life in your head and the pressure is too much to handle.

"Come one, you'll be fine."

You believe that. Because your brother said it, because he said it with that voice, because he tightened his grip on you, the warmth seeping into your chilled bones…you have no choice but to believe him.

You have no idea where you're walking, where you're stumbling, where you're hitting walls, where you're getting scars…and when you think you're gonna get lost again, consumed by darkness, your brother uses his voice again: "And no more hitting walls for you, Sammy."

You'll worry about the pain latter, you're home now. Err, with Dean. Oh God, you think that wall was your limit.

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The End