Author's Notes: Sequel to my first fic, The Undiscovered Country (That fic is a one – shot, but I couldn't deal with all of the emotion and angst set forth from it in one chapter). This is set during the last few episodes of Season 4 and all of Season 5. The title comes from an excerpt from one of my favorite books, How Green Was My Valley:

"We knew when we laughed we were not having all the laugh, that it was not wide, or deep, or high enough, that the best part of it was on each side of the line, kept back. We knew when we talked together that we were not talking with all of us, but only that bit of us that others would see and know as Bronwen and Huw Morgan. If we came near each other we were like hedgehogs with spines to keep away though we never showed it. But we knew it. The air was hot with a hotness that only the two of us could feel. Our talk was empty… [but] we knew why we were talking emptily, and why we never looked at each other.

We were gently afraid of each other, though without fear, and with nothing of fright. We were afraid only in the spirit and delicacy of being afraid, of the same nature of afraidness that blood horses feel when a hand is placed on them, and they shake under the skin from tail to muzzle.

A fear of the touch, whether from speech, eyes, or body.

And only because we knew of another world, that could be reached in a moment, and felt for a moment, and gone only in a momentary moment."

In the Spirit and Delicacy

Chapter 1

Dean Winchester had run the gamut of emotions since he came back from Hell. He'd rediscovered how fine it was to be with a woman, and had even fucked an angel. Okay, so she was a fallen angel. So what? That was so much better than one of those tight – ass dickwads like Zachariah, anyway – Anna knew how to have fun every once in a while and actually had feelings and emotions other than the Borg.

He'd known fear and terror since he came back, too. He'd hoped to never have that feeling again, but that was part of life. He almost broke when he had to torture Alistair. Goddamn, was it satisfying for a while, but when he broke free, all the memories came back fresh:

He hadn't started with the obvious, like knives to the gut or something like that. He got those little nose pliers, and started ripping Dean's hair out, along with the scalp, just a little bit at a time. It was completely dark, so he didn't know where the demon was pulling out next.

Next came the toes. Drills to them. Dean had tried not to scream, because that would give Alistair more pleasure, but with that much pain, you couldn't not scream after a while.

Nails into his chest. Razorblades stuck in the palms. Sewing needles the size of a twig in his kneecaps. Dean remembered all of that and more.

But, he remembered something else. He'd told Alistair that he still dreamed in Hell. He didn't always dream of torturing Alistair…he dreamed of Sam. Sammy as a little kid, begging Dean to play catch. Sam as a teenager, fighting with Dad about family duty. Sam when he left, grieving both him and Dad more than he would ever know.

But mostly, he remembered the kiss. He was fucking hammered that night, so most of what was going on was a little fuzzy, but he remembered holding Sam, kissing Sam…it was better than some makeout sessions he'd had. Sam had been so warm, and his muscles a surprisingly nice change from the toned, but slender, girls he was used to being with.

And Sam's groans turned him on. That rumble, deep in his chest, was…sexy. There was no other way of putting it. He certainly seemed to want Dean's kiss…

But Sam had pushed him away. Sam didn't want him. That was reality, and it was a worse hell than Hell. And now Sam had chosen a damn demon over him. It stung. It hurt. There were no words visceral enough to describe the pain Dean was feeling right now.

To distract himself, he put on some Metallica and barreled down the highway. He was going to kill Ruby. He had to kill Ruby to save Sam. Like Cas had told him, the amount of demon blood she'd give him would turn him into a monster. He'd just gotten his baby brother back, and he wasn't about to lose him again.

As the music washed over him, another memory came into his head. It wasn't quite as painful, but it confirmed for Dean what he had always suspected about the night he kissed his brother:

Sam had come in late that night…again. He was more erratic now, and it scared Dean. Plus, Sam was only barely acknowledging Dean now when he came in. Where was the loving, gentle Sam he'd known for so long? Where had the real Sam gotten off to?

When Sam finally lay down on his bed, Dean walked over and asked, "Hey, Sammy. You alright?"

Sam snorted awake, and mumbled, "What'd you say?" He'd just gotten to bed. He couldn't be that tired. Dean tried to stay calm.

"I asked if you're alright. You know, considering you got in at around 3 this morning," Dean said evenly, trying not to sound bitter. Bitchiness would only piss Sam off more.

Sam sat up in the bed. His eyes squinted from the light of the table lamp. He looked worn and old. Not in his body; he'd never been more fit and muscular. No, it was his eyes and his face. He looked ragged and worn. Tired. Like his life energy was spent.

Sam managed a small smile and said, "I'm fine, Dean. Just tired."

Dean lost it. "My left asscheek, you're just tired!" He grabbed Sam by the shoulders and shook him while saying, "You're disappearing at odd times and lying about where you go! You're doing something wrong, Sammy! I can feel it!"

Sam only said, "Dean, this isn't the time or the place. Just…just leave it."

And then it spit out. Dean snarled, "And what about that kiss? The one we had before I went to Hell? You wanna just leave that, too?" He regretted even saying anything as soon as he saw Sam's face. Sam's face went completely pale, and his eyes filled with horror.

He'd scarred Sam for life when he kissed him. He'd broken the sacred code of brothers, and he could never repare what he'd done.

"You know what?" Dean said, trying to be as cold as possible. "I've slept in the car before. It's not so bad out there. Not too cold." Sam didn't even try to stop him; he just sat, staring, as Dean got himself a blanket, pillow, and sawed – off shotgun…

That was the beginning of the real coldness. It was like they were strangers to each other. Sam was relying more and more on Ruby…and her damn blood.

What was wrong with Sam? Why did he want the one thing that was wrong and bad for him? Why did he want to push his own brother away to be with a demon?

Those were the questions Dean tortured himself with and the ones he would never get the answer to.