Well, my first ever SPN fic. Ah, this is a missing scene from "Asylum". What did Sam say to Dr. Ellicott in order to learn about the South Wing riot? Standard disclaimers apply and all that jazz.

One Thing

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

Sam's head snapped up, and something cold and prickly hit his stomach, the feeling that he had misjudged the situation. Dr. Ellicott was a trained professional, and with all of that training, who was to say that he couldn't see right through Sam to the heart of the matter? That he didn't know it was all a tactic to get information on Roosevelt Asylum and the south wing incident?

Sam kept his face calm, neutral, but letting a little confusion show through. He pretended that he had no idea what the doctor was talking about. Six months ago, before Dean had walked back into his life and the fire had claimed everything, he would not have been able to hold the mask so well. Then again, six months ago, he had been a different person. Current Sam already had half a dozen lies waiting for him on the tip of his tongue.

"You're avoiding the subject: you."

And there is honest surprise there, a tactic that Sam had never thought about. It was not the first time Dr. Ellicott had come across a patient who was unwilling to talk. All of a sudden, getting the information seemed just a little bit closer and easier. It was almost funny, really.

Dr. Ellicott leaned forward in his chair, his eyes piercing, but his posture was open and easy to read. He didn't like the subject, didn't like talking about the asylum and the family tragedy that must have shaped his career choice, but like Sam he needed an opening. "Tell you what," he began, and his words were casual, the kind of casual that was so familiar, that Sam and Dean had used countless times, "you tell me one honest thing — say, about that brother of yours — and I'll tell you all about the riot."

Sam went quiet. It couldn't be that easy. There was no way in hell it could be that easy. There were hundreds of things he could say about Dean, some of them nice, some of them not so much, but he hesitated. Dr. Ellicott was a shrewd man, he surmised, and was very capable of reading people. If he sensed deception, the deal was off, and Sam knew that the door would be forever closed. He only had one chance to get it right.

One honest thing.

There was the crux of it, so simple and yet so very damnably hard. Dr. Ellicott had picked the topic with casual interest, but Dean was a complex person, and Sam had a whole lot of feelings.

"It shouldn't be this difficult," he said, and right then he knew he had taken a misstep, that he was off his game, because that was Sam really talking about his brother. To a stranger.

Not even Jessica had gotten that close.

He could see a thin line of impatience written on Dr. Ellicott's face, buried deep below the surface where most people couldn't see, and it was the same expression she would wear when she'd ask something beyond the knowledge that he had a family at all and he would clamp down on it and push the question aside.

"What's difficult?" Dr. Ellicott asked, his gentle voice probing.

Sam fought for the words. He was a talker, yes, but only when he wanted to be and only with those who already knew about him. "Talking about it." He took a deep breath and pressed forward, ignoring his father's voice in his head. "We don't talk about things," he tried to explain. "I mean ever."

Dr. Ellicott seemed to process this.

Sam wanted to explain, to tell him about the search for their father, his frustration, and Jessica's death and how that had affected him. But that wasn't a part of the doctor's offer, so he kept it where it belonged. "So, it's hard for me to talk about Dean. To anyone," he added with a bit of a rueful smile. "And sometimes, it's hard for me to figure out how I feel about him."

"That's typical of siblings."

"Not quite like this." Sam hesitated for a moment, then continued, "We were very close growing up, but things changed when I got older. We started to disagree on a number of subjects, but I always knew he felt responsible for me."

"Again, sounds typical."

"We weren't a typical family," Sam insisted.

Dr. Ellicott gave a sort of half-shrug, both a sign of acquiescence and a signal to continue, but Sam had lost his stride, derailed by that one word, typical. There was nothing typical about the Winchesters, not at all.

"So," Dr. Ellicott prompted, "you're conflicted about your brother."

Sam nodded, mute. His chest was raw, throbbing, like he had been scored deep by something sharp. He had a crazy thought that maybe Dr. Ellicott's office was haunted, that something was both forcing him to talk and punishing him for it. He wished he could have brought one of Dean's EMFs, but he didn't want to bring a bag and appear suspicious, and the EMF wouldn't have fit in his back pocket. It was all Sam, anyway, and deep inside he knew that.

"I'd like," Dr. Ellicott began, and his tone was lighter, backing away from that exchange, "to ask you some of the typical questions that therapists are expected to ask."

"'How do you feel about that?'" Sam supplied for him. "'Why do you think that way? What can you tell me about your mother?'"

Dr. Ellicott raised an eyebrow at the last one.

Sam shook his head, a firm dismissal. "She died when I was a baby. I never knew her."

"Can't blame a guy for trying, can you?" He smiled for a moment. "No, I feel those questions would be counter-productive."

"The riot?" Sam asked, hopeful. He was already uncomfortable enough with the amount he'd shared. It had to be worth something.

"Not yet. You've told me a little about your brother and this road trip, so I'm curious. Since you have all of these conflicting emotions concerning your brother, why did you decide to go on this road trip?"

He hesitated. Sam could talk about their missing father until he was blue in the face. He could tell the doctor about how much he had missed Dean, and how without Jessica, he was distanced from his friends at Stanford. He could tell the man about the armor of guilt and lies he wore around people.

But it wasn't the truth.

Sam stared down at his hands, splayed open across his knees, and examined the calluses there. "He said he missed me, that he didn't want to be alone." Then he shrugged, biting back a sharp laugh. "Not that he said it that way. No, with Dean, you have to read between the lines." He looked up at Dr. Ellicott again and was surprised to see that the man was unsurprised. "I just walked away from everything in my life that I had built with my own two hands, everything normal, and followed him because he needed me."

"Normal," Dr. Ellicott repeated.

Sam ducked his head. "I wanted to be normal. What we had, what my family was, wasn't even close."

"Your brother—"

"Don't." Sam knew exactly what Dr. Ellicott was asking, and stopped it. The doctor looked a little surprised then, at his tone and the force he put behind that one word. God, even the shrink thought they were a couple. "He asked me to help him, and I left normal behind, all of my dreams of the future, and now this."

The doctor waited.

"He acts like it's nothing," he said, and oh god it's Sammy talking, the Sammy that worshipped his brother and would do anything for him. The Sammy that dreamed of a future, to an end to the fighting and blood and dirt and grime and his mother's burning corpse over his crib. The Sammy who had never known normal, and yet craved it like it was a physical, tangible thing.

Sam took a deep breath, held it in until it hurt, and then told the truth. "The future I wanted for us, for me and Dad and Dean, wasn't ever going to happen. Because it was never enough for him. I wanted normal, and he wanted..." Hunting. Sam couldn't bring himself to say that final part. That was a confession too far.

Instead, he looked back at his hands, at the ridges that had formed all those years ago, from the friction between his fingers and a taut bowstring. He quit soccer after that one season, had learned bow hunting after all because one does not win arguments against John Winchester.

"Because of Dad."

Dr. Ellicott said nothing, but he didn't need to. Sam was capable of talking it all out himself.

"Dean and Dad are like extensions of each other. Or maybe Dean is just an extension of Dad. It's hard to tell, sometimes. But with everything that man has put us through, Dean can't ever stop to think outside of Dad's opinion. Defends him, even." Sam closed his eyes, shook his head against the onslaught of memories, of arguments picked – not with Dad, but Dean – and sighed. He opened his eyes again, but couldn't drag his gaze any higher than a patch of carpet between Dr. Ellicott's feet. "I left. I went to school and I was normal. And when he showed up, out of the blue, there wasn't even a shred of doubt in him that I would follow when he left."

"Why did you?" the doctor asked. "You had almost everything you wanted, right? So why did you leave it behind?"

Because it felt good to be the one who was needed for once. Because Jessica was dead, and it was all his fault. Because Dad was off doing god only knew what, with Dean following happily in his footsteps, and there was no place left for Sammy but with him.

"Because he's my brother," Sam said at last.

He didn't know what Dr. Ellicott was thinking about it all. Certainly, the man had to suspect child abuse at best. Sam wanted to reassure him that it wasn't like that at all, but at long last, the words were running out.

"Have you ever tried telling him any of this?"

Sam shook his head. "Not all of it. Some. He doesn't listen, or he listens in the wrong place and then gets all pissed off." He shook his head again, then offered a weak smile to Dr. Ellicott. "We're Winchesters. We have to hold everything in, you know. Until we explode."

There was another moment of silence, and then Dr. Ellicott must have realized that Sam was done talking, because the rest of the session was filled with Roosevelt Asylum and the riot.

Outside, Dean greeted Sam with a raised eyebrow and a neutral tone of voice. Not disapproving, just wary. "You were in there for a long time."

"Yeah," Sam mumbled.

"Well? Did you learn anything?"

"Yeah, actually. A lot."