Contains dialogue from the episode Sam, Interrupted, it belongs to Eric Kripke and Andrew Dabb.

Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page. They will make more sense if read in order. :)

He has barred my way with blocks of stone; he has made my paths crooked.

Lamentations 3:9

The second Martin fills him in on what happened, Dean practically runs away from him down the hall. He doesn't ask where Sam is, he's just hoping the kid is in his room. He doesn't understand how this happened. He was so sure it was the doctor. He saw it, in the mirror. None of it makes any sense. Now, not only are they stuck in this place, but Sam attacked someone with a sharp object and getting out of here is going to be that much harder with him on lockdown.

He opens the door to Sam's room, finds Sam sitting on the bed, and closes the door quickly behind himself. "You okay?"

"No," Sam mumbles. "No, I'm not okay. I … I … I am … awesome."

Dean raises his eyebrows at Sam's slurred words and relaxed posture. "They give you something?"

"Oh yeah. They gave me everything. It … it's spectacu-lacular." He giggles, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"You always were a happy drunk."

Sam's face falls suddenly, and he reaches out unsteadily to grab Dean's arm. He yanks it, pulling Dean down so they're eye-to-eye. "Dean. The doctor wasn't a wraith."

"I know. I don't understand it, I mean I saw it in the mirror. It wasn't human."

"Or you're seein' things. Maybe, I mean, maybe you're goin' crazy."

"I'm not crazy."

"Well, come on, I mean you've been at least … half crazy for a long time. Since you got back from Hell, or since before that, even. I mean, we're in a mental hospital." He laughs and looks like the thought is amusing to him. It isn't to Dean. "Maybe, maybe you finally cracked. You know, maybe now you are really, for real, crazy."

"I made a mistake. That's all. I'll find the thing."

"Okay. Yeah, yeah, I know." Sam reaches out and touches Dean's other shoulder, his face slipping into concern and sympathy. "It's okay. Hey, look at me. It's okay. 'Cause you're my brother. And I still love ya."

Dean grins sarcastically at him.

Then Sam taps his finger to the end of Dean's nose and says, "Boop!" and Dean is beyond finished with this conversation.

He shrugs Sam's hands off him and stands up. "Okay. Well I'm gonna go figure out who the thing really is so you can stop stabbing innocent dudes. You stay here and enjoy the drugs. Have a good trip."

"See you next fall!" Sam cries, way too loud, and then dissolves into giggles at his own attempt at being funny.

Dean shakes his head and walks back toward the door.

"No, no, wait!"

He looks over his shoulder. "What?"

"C'mere."

"I am here."

"No." Sam's brow furrows and he gestures toward himself. "Here."

Dean sighs and smiles a little at the same time. Doped-up Sam is equally irritating and entertaining. He walks back to his brother. "Okay. What?"

Sam grabs his arm again and tugs, trying to get Dean onto the bed with him. Dean resists for a second, because there is no way they're having looney-bin sex on a bed that barely fits Sam alone while he's too drugged to even remember it, but then he gives in and sits beside his brother's legs.

"I mean it," Sam says, his face suddenly serious but his words still garbled.

"You mean what?"

"Love you."

"I know."

"You love me back, right? Even if I screwed up?"

"You didn't screw up, Sam. You only attacked the guy because I told you it was him. I would've done the same thing if I found him first. This was my fault."

"No. Not … no." Sam shakes his head, his hair bouncing around. He tugs Dean in closer and cups Dean's cheek with a shaky hand. "Not that. The other thing."

"What's the other thing?"

"I listened to her," Sam whispers. "Should'a listened to you. Ruined everything."

Dean's stomach turns. This isn't the time for this discussion – not that they haven't already had it a hundred times in the last few months. "It doesn't matter. We're gonna fix it."

"What if we can't?"

"Then we can't."

"So then everybody dies and it's my fault." Sam's eyes fill with tears and he lets his hand fall away from Dean's face.

Dean moves in a little closer. Sam may not even remember this tomorrow, but even still Dean can never handle seeing his brother look so sad. He brushes the hair off Sam's face and smiles at him, trying to be reassuring. "No it isn't. The angels started the apocalypse, Sam. They pulled the trigger. You were just the gunpowder."

Sam nods but doesn't look like it makes him feel any better.

Standing up, Dean leans over and kisses the top of Sam's head. "I gotta go. Gotta figure out who the wraith is so we can get outta here."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Hey, see all those little flecks on the ceiling tiles?" Dean asks, pointing upwards and watching Sam's eyes follow the direction of his finger. "I want you to count them, alright?"

"Will that help?" Sam frowns but his eyes widen eagerly.

"Yeah. Big help." Dean tries to look like he's telling the truth.

Sam nods vigorously, and slouches down on the bed so he can stare at the ceiling. Dean leaves the room to the sound of Sam counting in a whisper, and hopes he'll fall asleep before he gets past a hundred.

"There's something really wrong with me, Dean."

Dean closes his eyes for a moment and sighs. "Sammy."

He thought, stupidly, the fact that Sam didn't talk about this in the car meant he was going to drop it. Apparently Sam was just waiting to get Dean trapped in a motel room where he can't turn up the radio to stop Sam from sounding off.

"No, I … I know you don't wanna talk about it. So I'm not going to, okay? But you just gotta know that. Everything I said back there is true."

Dean looks at him. Sam walks slowly over to sit at the small table, dropping heavily into the chair and folding his hands in front of him. He stares at them, his hair falling down to cover his eyes. Dean can't tell whether he's doing that on purpose or not. Sometimes he does.

"Since I was a kid, I have been angry at the whole world for some reason or another," Sam continues quietly. His voice sounds like it's painful to admit the things he's saying, and like he hates himself for them. It's a feeling Dean is all too familiar with. "I always have to have something to be pissed off about, and when that thing goes away I just find something else. But it's never those things I'm really mad at."

"So then what is it?" Dean asks, giving in and resigning himself to having this conversation. It's not that he doesn't want to. If Sam is troubled about something, Dean wants him to be able to talk about it. It's that it hurts to see Sam so sad and know there's nothing he can do about it.

"I don't know, that's what I'm saying. That's what scares me. That I don't know. I don't know what it will take to finally make these feelings go away, I don't … I don't know if they ever can."

Dean rubs his hands over his face, digging his fingertips into his closed eyes in an attempt to stave off the stress headache he can feel building deep inside his skull. This hunt was supposed to be simple. Something preying on patients at a mental hospital, it should have been cut-and-dry. They were supposed to go in, find the monster, take it down, and get out. It wasn't supposed to bring up all these feelings; it wasn't supposed to mess with them so much. Dean's getting tired of everything messing with them. He's getting tired of everything being complicated.

He walks over and joins his brother at the table. "You're not always angry. We live out of each other's pockets, remember? I see you smile and laugh all the time."

"So you're saying I'm overreacting," Sam says, soft and dejected like he expected Dean to trivialize his pain.

"No. Sammy, that's not what I meant, okay? I'm saying … we got injected with crazy-juice. It brought all kinds of shitty stuff back up, for both of us. You were always like this, even when you were a kid. When you were happy, you were the happiest person alive, and then when you were pissed off it was like the world was ending. So maybe all this seems like a bigger deal right now than it really is, because you're upset."

Sam shrugs one shoulder half-heartedly and won't look at Dean.

Dean props his elbows up on the table and drops his face into his hands again. They should've gone directly to a bar. A couple drinks in they would've started arguing about football or which actress made the sexiest Catwoman, instead of being cooped up in a room with nothing to do but relive everything that's happened in the last few weeks.

"What's wrong with you?" Sam asks.

"You are what's wrong with me!" Dean answers loudly, and then instantly regrets it. "Sorry. That's not … look, you've just got the whole sad puppy thing goin' on right now, and it's – "

"Would you stop saying that?" Sam snaps.

"Stop saying what?"

"Calling me that! I'm not a freakin' puppy who's sad because I can't find the tennis ball you threw! These are real problems, Dean! You act like I'm upset about them on purpose just to annoy you!"

"No, that's …" Dean holds his hands up and catches Sam's gaze. "That's not what I meant either. They are real problems, you're right. And it's not that I don't wanna talk about it. Alright? It's just that … I have no answers, Sam. None. You can tell me every little thing that's in your head if that's what you want and I'll listen. And I can feel like shit that you're hurting, because I do. But I can't fix it. I wish I could. I just don't know how."

Sam shakes his head slowly and looks at Dean like his heart is breaking. "It's not your job to fix it."

It is, but Dean doesn't say that. Instead he gets up, and walks around to stand behind Sam. He leans over, wrapping his arms around Sam's shoulders and nosing through his hair. "I want you to listen to me. You have demon blood in you, Sam. You have since you were six months old. So maybe that amps you up a little. I mean, we know demons are fucked in the head, right? So maybe, whatever you're feeling at any given moment, you feel it a little more than someone else would. That doesn't mean there's something wrong with you."

"Of course it does!" Sam cries, pushing Dean's arms away and standing up. "Everything you just said is what's wrong with me!"

"Yeah, okay, fine, so you're not normal! I got a news flash for ya, kiddo, I'm not normal either! Neither of us have been normal since the day mom died and we never will be!"

"Is this supposed to be making me feel better?" Sam asks, spreading his arms out and raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, it is! Because whatever's going on with you? You have always got me right there with you, okay?" Dean promises urgently. He needs Sam to understand that. Maybe it won't help, but it's all they have going for them anymore.

Sam's arms fall down to his sides and he shrinks into himself again, posture slackening and his head falling forward. It doesn't matter whether Sam likes it or not; he does look like a dog that just got kicked and is trying desperately to understand why, and it's so damn hard to look at.

He steps into his brother and slides his arms back around him, pulling Sam down so their foreheads touch. Dean doesn't care if Sam pushes him away again. He needs this right now and Dean's just going to have to keep trying until Sam gives in to it. Sam would do the same for him.

"I don't know what's going on in your head," Dean murmurs softly, trailing his fingers through Sam's hair. Sam brings his hands up to cup around Dean's hips, and Dean lets himself count that as a small victory. "I don't know how you feel right now, or what you're thinking, or anything. But I do know you. Better than anyone else in the world, just like you said to me once, remember?"

"Yeah," Sam whispers.

"And I know that, whatever else is going on, the one thing that doesn't change with you is this." Dean moves his hand down and presses his palm over the center of Sam's chest. "Maybe there is demon blood pumping through your veins, and maybe that's gonna keep on affecting you and there's nothing we can do about that. But the thing that's pumping that blood? Is the biggest heart, bigger than anyone I've ever met. It doesn't matter what mistakes you made. It's about who you are inside. And you are good Sam. I know you don't always believe that. But I always believe it. You're a good person. That's what matters."

Sam nods. Dean reaches for his cheek and wipes away the tears he finds there, and then cups it and guides Sam's face down to brush their lips together.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam mumbles.

"Any time, little brother."

Dean has spent his whole life trying to take on all the pain the world deals them so Sam won't have to, and he's failed so many times, over and over again. The idea that he can't protect Sam from any of this is enough to make Dean feel like crying too. But he can't; at least not tonight. Sammy needs him, so that's more important.