Chapter 1

Dean slammed the bathroom door and the walls of the room shook. Sam stood rooted to the spot, his words dying on his lips, he was beginning to realise that there was no easy fix for this. He had tried to apologize, explain, but he sounded weak and unconvincing even to his own ears, and Dean was in no mood to let him off lightly.

The ride back to their motel had been silent and tense. Sam had kept his head down hardly daring to look at Dean, not that he needed to. He knew without looking that Dean's jaw was clenched. That his knuckles were white as they gripped the steering wheel and that his awkward posture as he over-revved the engine was a direct result of Sam blasting his chest with a barrel or two of rock salt.

Sam had wanted to say more, try to get Dean to see past the angry, hurtful words that had been forced out of Sam's mouth, but the further they got from the asylum the more his head had started to pound. It hadn't been painful at first, more of a tickle behind his eyes. A slight whispering that seemed to shift from ear to ear. By the time Dean turned the car, a little too sharply, into the motel parking lot, Sam felt like something was trying to slam his eyeballs through their sockets from inside his head and the whispering had turned into a full blown shriek.

Dean had exited the car slowly, hunched over and without a backward glance at Sam, had headed straight for their room. Sam had followed just as slowly, one hand supporting his head and wondering if it might not be best for both of them if the damn thing just fell off there and then. He stepped inside the room just in time to see Dean shrug off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor and disappear into the bathroom.

Sam sat down on the nearest bed and realised that he was shaking, from what, he wasn't even sure, shock, remorse or just good old fashioned exhaustion. He closed his eyes and dropped back onto the bed, which due to the less than soft mattress jarred his neck muscles and caused a new burst of pain to bloom behind his eyes.

"Fuck", he hissed and took a few deep breathes to try and calm his body and mind. The shrieking in his ears was more of a muted hiss now, one with a sibilant rolling rhythm, almost like a short repetitive chant. Sam's eyes flew open and he drew in a deep ragged breath at the abrupt understanding of what it was he could hear. Voices, many voices, rising and falling as they called out to him, and although the voices were indistinct and formless he knew what they were saying.

A sudden noise from the bathroom told him Dean was taking a shower, whether from necessity or avoidance Sam suddenly found that he didn't care. He was off the bed and banging at the bathroom door before he knew what he was doing.

"Dean, Dean" his voice was rough. He banged at the door again and was relieved when he heard the water stop, the door opened and Dean, a towel around his waist and still wet from the shower, stood gazing at him, his face expressionless.

"Something you want," he asked coldly. Sam felt sick, his brother's chest was a mass of swollen flesh and blotchy red welts. Blood that had obviously been washed away by the shower just starting to well up again, other patches of skin just looked raw, the top layers ripped away by the shotgun blast. There was no bruising. Sam knew that within a few hours Dean's chest would probably be black and blue. He looked up, meeting his brother's eyes.

"There's something, I have..," he stopped unsure of how he could explain when he didn't understand himself.

"There's, uh, something I need to do, so I'm taking the car. If that's okay, with you, I mean", he meant to sound more forceful, but his voice shook. Dean just stared, Sam dropped his gaze to the floor.

"Fine." Dean's voice was flat, he turned back into the bathroom and didn't quite slam the door in Sam's face. Sam stood, still looking down, both glad and disappointed that Dean didn't ask why or where he was going. The pain behind his eyes had lessened slightly but the whispers still called for him.

The drive back to the asylum seemed to take no time at all and as Sam pulled up he didn't really remember the route he'd taken. The closer he came to the abandoned hospital the louder voices had become again and as he pulled the keys from the ignition the shrieking returned. He found himself stumbling from the car, hardly able to open his eyes against the dull morning sun.

Sheltering his eyes, Sam peered through his fingers, the wire gates looked higher and more daunting than before. Damn, he thought, but as he lifted his hands to pull himself up, the gates swung open before him. Sam hesitated and then walked quickly towards the battered doors, which opened for him just as the gates had done. As soon as he stepped across the threshold the noises in his head were immediately silenced and for an instant it felt as if a great sigh echoed through the walls.

Sam paused, listening, there was no sound or movement, no vibe, as he had called it. For a moment he imagined he could feel a faint air of impatience, as if someone, somewhere was shifting restlessly, waiting.

Did Dean ever feel such things? Sam wondered. Where did gut instinct end and precognition begin? Perhaps one day, he thought, he would ask.

Daylight filtered through the boarded and barred windows and the place looked even more desolate than it had earlier. Sam shook his head, and winced. This is where he had pulled a gun on his brother and so willing pulled the trigger. The last place he wanted to see again and as he started off down the hall he wondered if all his mistakes would come back so readily, so quickly. Well, of course, he thought grimly, they probably would.

The basement room where Dean has dispatched the esteemed Dr Ellicott was silent and empty. Sam stared at the ash stained floor, all that remained of the psychiatrist's second passing. Dean had been able to resist Dr Ellicott's alternative therapy long to save them both, but Sam had given in to his own anger so easily. He had revelled in the adrenaline rush of his rage, fuelled by all his petty, buried resentment.

God, Sam sank to his knees, was he that weak and vindictive, really that eager to show his big brother who was boss? Sam closed his eyes, and dropped his chin down his chest. He was the one who was pathetic, not Dean. Not his brother who always looked out for him and had saved his sorry ass more times than he cared to count. Sam screwed his eyes tightly shut, but it didn't help much against the slow, hot seep of tears that were forced down his face.

He wasn't sure how long he knelt there, in the ashes of a long dead madman, his tears dropping to the floor. The room was quiet. Sam knew before he opened his eyes that he was no longer alone.

They were all there, how many Sam wasn't sure. They stood encircling him, pales forms in ragged clothes, their hair wild, some with faces hidden in shadows, other with dead eyes fixed on him. Sam slowly scanned the room . Many of the faces he could see were distorted, damaged in life by a man more interested in proving his brilliance to the world than trying to understand and help those already at a disadvantage.

Am I any different than Ellicot? Sam thought as he got to his feet. Was he? Or was he just one more egotist, thinking himself intellectually superior, better than others because of some pre-conceived notions of what society considered normal. Perhaps, Sam told himself, here was a chance to put something right.

He tried to ignore the cold flutter of fear that clenched his stomach. There was no going back now, if he had misunderstood there was no one to save his sorry ass this time and he hoped that Dean would be able to forgive him, eventually.