Author's Notes: Ficlet or two based around the spoiler that Sam gets committed around 7x17. Just a way I think it could go. Just the description of the episode has me thinking it will be one of my favorites.

Summary: Sam's going downhill fast. Dean's going with him. Spoilers for unaired episodes.

How it Goes

Dean was trying so hard, so hard, to take care of his brother. He'd stopped drinking, they'd mostly stopped hunting, only taking the odd, easy jobs. There was no new info on the Leviathans yet, but even if there was, even if Dean hungered for that revenge like he had nothing else before, he wasn't sure Sam could've done it. No, he was sure his brother would've gotten himself killed and it was an awful choice between avenging the man who had been a father to them or trying to save the little brother falling apart next to him. It was an awful choice but, in the end, it was an easy one.

The flashes and breaks from reality had grown more and more frequent and unpredictable until Dean had finally told Sam that he needed a break. It was the only way Sam would go along with it. Even though he was clearly deteriorating, Sam wouldn't have stopped unless it had been because Dean needed to. It was easy enough to convince him with all the emotional upheaval lately and Dean did actually feel a bit of weight off his shoulders when Sam agreed. This would help, this would work. He would fix Sam, get him grounded again. He just needed a little time.

But Sam didn't get better, not at all and Dean should've known because that's how their lives went. Sam's mind couldn't be fortified by a bit of down time and encouraging words. It was like a stone slowly ebbed away by the sea; you couldn't build it back up, only watch it crumble.

But no, that was everyone else. Dean could fix him. He'd been putting Sam back together his whole life.

Sometimes Dean could hardly remember the last time Sam was completely lucid and even when he did, he didn't like to think about it. Sam had known what was happening to him. Sam's teary eyes, bloodshot and bruised looking had everything in them to let Dean know that Sam knew this was it. He wasn't coming back.

That broken, screamed raw voice trying to say goodbye to Dean, absolve them both, apologize for everything that had never been his fault to start with. Dean wouldn't let him, just wrapping himself around Sam's shaking frame and holding tight. Telling him, 'Shut up, shut up, Sammy. Just…'. And Sam had cried and clung to Dean and they'd both held on for hours even as Sam slipped through his fingers.

But it was okay. Dean could fix it. He could make it better, was making it better. Dean lived in his happy little world of denial, content to take care of his brother as he had his whole life. He calmed Sam down when he screamed, fed him when he wouldn't eat, talked to him when his eyes went distant, and cleaned the blood off of him when it all went wrong.

It went wrong a lot.

Dean clipped Sam's fingernails painfully close to stop the scratching, pulled Sam against him so he could bang his head against Dean's shoulder instead of the wall, bandaged the jagged wounds Sam still managed to make from the corner of the bed frame (now filed down) and the, now removed, bathroom mirror and his own teeth.

And the denial had been fine, had been working. Sam was skinnier, easily panicked, but it was pretty okay. Until it wasn't one day. When Dean had gone for a food run, only a few minutes. He couldn't take Sam with him anymore, even just in the car. If he took him out, he'd get taken away. You couldn't hide this kind of crazy.

So Dean had walked in, dropped the groceries, and tackled Sam just as he'd been pulling the shard across his neck. Sam wailed and screamed and Dean grabbed what he could reach, the bed cover, pressing it against the damage Sam had been able to make. His throat wasn't slashed, but he was bleeding and it was bad, this was all…how did it get so bad?

Sam threw himself against the wall, but Dean caught him, held him, trapped him. Hand pressed to the slowly bleeding throat of his baby brother, Dean held on, held on, held on. He cried right along with Sam. He didn't want to do this, he'd rather die, but he'd been skating around it for months. He couldn't take care of Sam, couldn't keep him safe. He knew what he had to do, but god…

"I'm sorry." Dean sobbed, as he put two stitches in the wound that had been too damn close on Sam's neck. "Sammy…Sorry, sorry, Sammy…"

Dean didn't let go when morning turned to night or when he led Sam by the hand to the car. Not while he drove, trying to keep Sam calm, or when he pulled up in front of the imposing building, coaxing his brother out of the car. Not when the doctor was there or the orderlies came. He sat with Sam a long time in that room, Sam's room, longer than the nurses generally allowed, talking quietly to a, once again catatonic, Sam.

Even when they finally dragged Dean away, told him he could come back tomorrow, Dean didn't let go. He held onto Sam, in that room, in that place as he made his way through the doors, back to the car. He couldn't even make it to the parking lot, numb and hurting at the same time, off balance without the literal other half of his soul.

Dean dropped to sit on the steps, waiting for visiting hours to roll around again. He watched the sunrise and waited for his brother.