I don't know what this is but it's the only thing I've been able to write for more than a year so take it.

NOT Wincest!

Something had pulled him out of Hell.

Something had pulled him out of Hell too late.

Dean's hands itched. Itched for the knife he had favoured in the Pit. Itched for the wet warmth of blood sliding over his skin as he bled out some damned soul.

And he hated and loved it at the same time. He wanted it, either way.

The motel room was dark, the time long past midnight. Sam was asleep on the cheap bed next to the one he was sitting on. For a moment, Dean envied him, but then he realized he didn't quite care. He looked up from his hands, to his brother, and then over to the keys on the cheap wooden dresser across the room. He was silent as he crossed the space, snagged the keys, and closed the motel room door behind him. He didn't notice Sam's half-closed eyes following him out.

Sam didn't say anything the next day when he walked out of the bathroom, hair dripping from his shower, and found Dean sprawled across the bed fully dressed, dozing. He didn't comment on the dirt and blood on his brother's shirt and boots. He'd assumed before that Dean was out drinking, but ganking creatures seemed just as reasonable an explanation too.

He knew that Dean hadn't been sleeping lately –you'd have to be blind not to notice the circles under his eyes growing darker every day –so he felt kind of bad when he kicked the muddy flat of the boot hanging off Dean's bed, and told him to pack up.

He wasn't stupid enough to think that Sammy hadn't noticed anything. Obviously he had. But Sammy thought he was drinking. Oh he was, definitely. But it wasn't to rid himself of Hell's nightmares. No, it was to help him fight that itch in his hands for just a few more hours, until Sammy was safely asleep and Dean could sneak off unwatched.

And the best part was, he thought, that Sammy didn't talk about it. He wanted to. Dean could see that blindfolded. But Sammy thought that Dean wouldn't talk, and he thought that trying to force him would raise bad memories for poor Dean. Poor Dean back from Hell. Poor Dean raised back to life after forty years of torture in the Pit.

It had only been thirty; thirty years of torture, ten years of being the one holding the knife. Of course, Alastair hadn't left him alone those last ten years. No. He'd been teaching Dean the art of torture for certain, but he'd demonstrated on Dean himself. Explaining and demonstrating rather than just enjoying.

So he kept himself quiet. Pretended to be himself like he was pre-Hell. He drank to keep the itch away. He deflected any talk, however hesitant, about what it was like down there. And he did his sneaking at night. After Sammy was asleep.

Once, Sammy had tried to stay up with him. He'd only pretended to be sleeping, but Dean had seen through that and Dean had not gone out that night. He had drunk a lot more that day though.

Sam was getting more and more worried about his brother.

Dean didn't sleep, he hardly ate, he was drinking like his sanity depended on it. Maybe it did. He didn't know.

Dean wouldn't talk about it. Dean brushed his questions, his worries, his yelling off like it was nothing. Like it didn't bother him. He just stared at him like Sam was missing something and took another pull of his beer.

The drinking should have been a problem. It was a problem, but not in the way he'd expected. Dean seemed careful that he never got himself drunk. He was never more out of it than 'pleasantly buzzed.' He didn't want himself passing out, Sam realized distantly. Whatever Dean was doing with himself, it didn't include sleeping.

This theory was only added to by the fact that Dean kept slipping out of the room every night. Sam had tried following him, if he woke up in time to catch his brother leaving anyway. He'd tried faking sleep but Dean had seemed to realize this and had made no move to leave the night he'd tried it.

Sam was getting desperate. He was at the point where he was seriously considering drugging his brother. Dean needed to sleep.

And then the angel showed up. He called himself Castiel. He told Sam that he had been the one to rescue Dean, to 'raise him from Perdition.'

"And you need to stop it," the angel had growled, "You and Dean, you need to stop. Or we will stop you."

"Stop what?"

The look the angel had given him then and there told him in no uncertain terms that he was talking about Sam's drinking demon blood.

"But what's Dean-?" The angel had gone.

His brother told him that he'd met Castiel. That the angel had said to stop whatever it was that he was sneaking out to do. Dean ignored him, and they packed their bags, and Sammy drove them out of town.

Dean slept in the car. He slept lightly, half-awake the whole time, enough to keep the dreams of Hell out of his head, enough to hear Sammy talking to Bobby.

They talked about him, of course, a little about a new case, but mostly about Dean. Always back to Dean.

He let Sammy know he was awake then. But Sammy kept talking to Bobby. He didn't hang up, he just kept talking. Hardly even glanced at Dean. He ignored Dean.

Dean heard, distantly, Bobby invite Sammy to bring Dean over to his house so he could check on him, and Sammy agreed.

When Dean asked, Sammy said that Bobby had a new case for them, but that he needed their help with something first. And Dean got angry. Sammy had lied to him. It was a little one, but it was still a lie. Bobby was making Sammy lie to him. He pretended to go back to sleep then.

So far, Sam thought, Dean was doing pretty good; which meant that things were really, really not good. He was working around Bobby, working to seem more like pre-Hell Dean than he had been when it was just the two of them. Sam tried to get Bobby to understand this through subtle looks and gestures as the day wore on. Bobby seemed to get the message.

By dinner time though, Dean seemed tired of acting. He was short-tempered and fidgety. Dean took hardly two bites of the sandwich Bobby had made him before he stood up, declared that he was done, and stalked off to the couch. Sam and Bobby watched in worried silence as Dean flung himself down on the old, tattered sofa, folded his arms, crossed his ankles, and closed his eyes.

They ate their own sandwiches in silence before moving out to the lot and dropping down onto the hood of the nearest car. Sam took his time to explain everything to Bobby that he hadn't been able to say with Dean around. He told him about the drinking, the insomnia, and the sneaking out. About the angel Castiel and his warning for –he did feel bad about lying, but Bobby didn't really need to know about the demon blood –for Dean to stop. The angel hadn't elaborated on what needed stopping and Dean hadn't commented, so Sam couldn't provide any answers there.

"He was in Hell for four months, Sam," Bobby said, "We're lucky he's still as much Dean as he is. As for what he's doin' when he's sneakin' off…We'll just have to ask the right questions."

Bobby didn't know what to do any more than he did, Sam thought, as he draped himself out over the more comfortable chair left in Bobby's living room. He looked over at Dean, asleep for once, and tried to quash the feeling that something was horribly wrong with his brother. But it wasn't long until he let his own eyes close and sleep fill him from the inside out.

He'd watched through a crack in the curtains as they talked, pretended to be asleep when they came back in.

Sammy had brought them straight to Bobby's house. No stops, no easy pace, just a full on drive straight there. And it irked him. It gave Dean a bad feeling that only strengthened the longer they sat in that man's house. He worked so hard to act normal. He knew they were watching. Both of them. Together.

He'd seen the looks Sammy had given Bobby. Sammy was always looking at Bobby. Dean was pretending so hard to be what they remembered, but Sammy still avoided his eyes. He looked at Bobby instead. It made him angry.

So when Sammy finally plunked into that uncomfortable-looking chair and his breathing steadied into sleep, Dean stood up. He walked in silence, moving in the darkness up through the all too familiar house. He pushed open the door to Bobby's room slowly, hesitantly. But the older man seemed to be asleep.

Seemed to be. With everyone only pretending to sleep lately, Dean wouldn't be surprised it Bobby was faking it. So he kept the knife in his pocket as he ghosted across the room. As he suspected, Bobby lifted his head before he got halfway.

"Dean?" Bobby sounded unsure, and rightly so he supposed. The old man sat up. He was still fully dressed, and lying on top of the blankets. Dean didn't mind.

"…Bobby." It was the first time he'd actually said the man's name all day. He wondered absently if that was something Sammy had picked up on and talked to the old man about. He decided he didn't care.

"Somethin' wrong, son?"

Alastair had called him 'son.' Not often, it wasn't one of his favourite things to call Dean, but it had been said often enough. Dean shivered.

Bobby looked concerned. His face was open but not soft, and one eyebrow was raised but not so much in curiosity. Bobby stood up, one hand out and almost reaching.

Dean grabbed it, flung the hunter.

Bobby hit the wall with a thick thwack and the crack of a broken picture frame.

Dean was moving before Bobby could shake his head to clear it. The knife was out now, soothing the itch in Dean's palm as he dug it into the hunter's cheek, dragged it out to paint a crimson line.

"I've seen the looks he's been giving you! He looks at you more than he looks at me. He talks to you more than he talks to me!"

Bobby tried to fight back and Dean slashed a cut down the inside length of the hunter's arm. Bobby hissed in a breath and grabbed his bleeding arm, but he still shoved Dean back. He moved to kick him, but Dean swung the knife and bashed Bobby's temple with the hilt. Bobby staggered and fell to one knee. Dean kneed him in the face, and grabbed Bobby by the throat when the old man fell back. He held him pinned against the floor, one knee on his chest, the old man's eyes wheeling.

"Sammy is mine. My brother. And he talks to you more than he talks to me." Dean pressed the knife to a point next to Bobby's eye. "Sammy is my brother."

"Dean-" Bobby tried to croak around Dean's fingers but he simply increased the pressure and the man stopped.

Dean was yelling. "Sammy is my brother!"

Bobby's face was going pink, darkening each second to match the colour oozing from his split cheek. Dean relished it. If Bobby was dead, Sammy would have no one but Dean to look at. Sammy would have no one to talk to but-

"Dean!" The foot came not a half-second later, and suddenly he was sprawled across the floor, the knife still in his hands, staring at the ceiling instead of a dying Bobby Singer. But that voice. That voice had been-

"Sammy?" Dean rolled over, stopping to stare as his brother helped Bobby to his feet, checked the damage on his arm. Dean frowned, felt the crumpled pout forming even as his brain struggled to tell him what was happening. "S…ammy?"

His brother- his brother was looking at him like he was crazy, like he couldn't believe that Dean would ever try to hurt Bobby. Like he was worried about Bobby. Worried enough to kick Dean.

Sammy had kicked Dean to save Bobby.

Dean's head was shaking, back and forth, "No. No." Sammy wouldn't- Sammy couldn't-

Sammy, who had come with him from college when he'd asked. Sammy, who'd known the difference between the shapeshifter and the real Dean. Sammy, who'd saved him again and again, who'd tried everything he could, against Dean's orders, to save him from having to go to Hell. Sammy…

Who had chosen Bobby instead of Dean.

Dean stopped. Stopped speaking, stopped moving, stopped breathing.

"…Dean?"

His fingers tightened on the knife handle. He raised himself to his knees, then to his feet. He kept his head down. He didn't want to see Sammy helping Bobby stop the bleeding. He didn't want to see Sammy anywhere near that man. But if he wanted to kill Bobby, he needed to know where he was.

So he looked up.

And both men gasped.

Dean supposed his eyes were black. They'd done that, every now and then, since he'd gotten back from Hell.

"Demon," Sammy spit.

Dean shook his head, smiling now, because Sammy was finally looking at him. Him and only him. He had Sammy's full attention.

And then Sammy was chanting in Latin and Dean didn't move, just reveled in the feeling of having his brother looking at him, talking to him. Even though his brother thought he was possessed. Dean let Sammy say the full exorcism. And then he shook his head again. His soul was burned and blackened from Hell, but he wasn't a demon yet. Alastair hadn't got that far, and thinking about his family had kept him from giving in.

The demon was staring at him now. How he could tell with his brother's eyes blacked out Sam wasn't quite sure, but he knew. He'd heard what Dean had been saying to Bobby; it had blown past obsession and hit something much farther beyond. And still, the look of utter and complete betrayal on Dean's face –like Sam had done the worst possible thing in the world by saving Bobby –before his eyes flicked black had nearly floored him. But then Dean's eyes had flickered dark and suddenly all of the crazy had an explanation: this wasn't Dean, had never been Dean, it was just some demon. Some demon with an expiry date if it didn't get out of his brother's body right now.

But it was shaking Dean's head and smiling, like it knew something Sam didn't. He'd started the exorcism but there was no screaming, no smoke, no flying objects as the demon fought to keep hold of Dean. Nothing happened.

He finished the ritual anyway. He didn't want to use the skills Ruby had been teaching him when Bobby was right there. But if this demon had locked itself inside Dean, then he might have no choice.

"Not a demon, Sammy." Dean's voice was calm, open, light.

"Meg locked herself in my body, you could have done the same!"

Dean shook his head again, his eyes back to normal as he blinked. "Not a demon, Sammy. I'm your brother. You're my brother."

"No."

"…No?"

Dammit all if it didn't stop making Dean sound so hurt…!

"Is this about him?! Are you choosing Bobby over me?" Dean never took his eyes off Sam's but the knife pointed itself straight at the other man's head. "You're my brother, Sammy! Mine! Why do you care so much! about! him!"

Sam didn't react fast enough. Neither did Bobby.

Dean threw the knife with as much precision as befitted a hunter who'd been throwing knives since they could shoot. There had been no warning in his eyes, in his face. One second the knife was simply pointing at Bobby, the next it was catching blue moonlight as it spun across the room.

There was a wet, solid thunk as the blade embedded itself in warm flesh. The angel, who had appeared between one blink and the next, lightly touched two fingers to Dean's forehead and Sam's brother crumpled to the floor.

Sam expected the same from Bobby and tensed to catch his weight; but while both of them flinched, neither dropped from life threatening injuries. They looked at each other, then at the angel. Castiel turned to them. He pulled the knife out of his shoulder and let it fall with a clatter onto the dusty floorboards of Bobby's room.

"I thought I told you both to stop."

Sam couldn't help but look bemused. "…What?"

"The last time we spoke, I told you that you and Dean must stop this."

"Stop what?! How am I supposed to stop Dean when I don't know what he's doing? Wait…" Sam looked from his unconscious brother to the bloody knife on the floor, "This is what he's been doing?!"

"Yes. I'm afraid that when I pulled your brother's soul from Hell, I found certain…changes had been made."

"Changes?"

"When a soul goes to Hell, it will suffer. Nothing escapes unscathed."

"…But that is Dean? There's no demon…?"

The angel glanced back at the unconscious figure at his feet, "Yes, it is Dean. I am sure of it. But like I said, his soul is scarred and badly damaged."

"Well-" Sam sputtered, looked to Bobby for support but the old hunter just shrugged. "What are we supposed to do with him? Can you fix him?"

Castiel looked unnerved for a second. A small second and a small look, one Sam was almost sure he'd dreamed up. "…No."

Sam's shoulders slumped. Great. He'd gotten Dean back from Hell, but it was a twisted, psychopathic shadow of Dean. One who was overly obsessed with 'Sammy,' and tried to kill everyone his younger brother so much as talked to.

But then the angel kept speaking. "Not without great difficulty. And great pain on Dean's part. I will have to touch his soul, to mould it to its original shape and cut off whatever of Hell is holding onto it."

"You can do that? Why didn't you do that before you put him back?!"

Though the look was still deadpan, it was scariest glare Sam had ever been subjected to. The angel turned back to Dean and crouched down.

Sam took it as his opportunity to leave. He still had Bobby to patch up, after all, the man was still bleeding. And he didn't exactly want to be there for the 'great pain on Dean's part' that the angel had been talking about.

So he steered Bobby, a little wobbly on his legs, out of the room and toward the nearest bathroom. And as he carefully wrapped up Bobby's arm he pretended not to hear Dean screaming in the other room.