Sam stared down at the street, a lamp catching on the shards of glass stretched out before him, perfect little metal tips scattered in the road. His legs burned from stomping on the pavement again and again, his hand clutching the bag so tight he feared it would burst and free all this poison that was probably pushing through his brother at this very moment. It would almost be fitting, to just rip at the bag and scatter the contents like the ashes of his mind - but no, can't do that.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, instantly calmer. Repetition - he dialed the same number as he had a billion times, when things just got too bad and 'the last resort' became 'Plan A.' Bobby's voice was tough and rough and a little sleepy, which made Sam sigh a little in relief. If he was asleep, it meant he wasn't working on a case.

"Sam?" Bobby asked, and he realized he hadn't said anything. He swallowed the painful lump in his throat.

"Bobby? Bobby, I...Where are you?" There was a flurry on the other end of the line.

"Nebraska." Sam's heart jumped. "Sam, what's happened?"

"What part of Nebraska?" He asked, a little prayer.

"The part with corn. I'm on my way. Just tell me what's happening. You hurt?" There was a pause. "Dean?"

"No, it's...we're okay, just. I'm going to need your house for a while."

When Sam finally hung up, fighting through Bobby's question's again and again, dawn had long crawled over the horizon and everything had those soft morning edges. Sam breathed and leaned against the car for a moment before pushing into the room. Nothing seemed so frightening.

Dean was rummaging around the room, barely glancing at Sam as he walked in from the parking lot. For a moment that old spark flared in Sam, and he wanted to scream Look at me, you bastard. Look at me! See me! but then it was gone, and the creeping sadness set deep into his bones. He wanted it out already.

"Dean?" He whispered. Big surprise, big brother ignores him. "Dean!"

"Sam, what?! Can't you see I'm a little busy here? Dammit!" He pushed his bag aside, hand running through his hair. "I think I left something in the car. Did you see one of my bags in there?" He headed for the door, but Sam wouldn't budge from the narrow walkway.

"How long, Dean?" His hands were clenched into fist, poorly halted anger punching viciously through him.

"How long what? I don't have time for this Sam!" Sam repeated the question, again and again, pushing off Dean's attempt to break through. He pushed Dean back, hard, and his brother bounced off his body and collided with the wall.

"What the fuck, Sam?! Stop being such a freak!"

"Tell me how long! Behind my back! Pretending nothing was going on? How long have you lied to me? I thought...You wouldn't let me touch you. I thought you didn't want this. Turns out you want it more. How could you do this to me?" Dean looked shattered."Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you let me help you?" Dean didn't answer, eyes fixing on the floor. "I'm helping you now." Eyes like glass, staring at Sam as if he could see right through him. He can. He always could. "I'm packing your bags back up. We're going to Bobby's."

Sam embraced the cool night lovingly, his hair ruffling against his ears, oddly cold. He flexed his hands, fingertips still tingling in remembrance of tousling Dean's jacket, almost forcing him into the passenger's seat. His brother wouldn't look at him, stared out at rows and rows of frigid ground, frostbit earth silent and still and so near dead that Sam dared not turn his head and gaze out as well.

They had stopped after years of driving, the crunch of gravel under the impala's wheels jumping Dean to life. He had bolted from the car, screaming at Sam near-incoherently.

Don't need you, can take care of myself.
Gee, Sammy, like taking the driver's seat on this one? Literally, no less?
You think you can judge me for this? Mr. I Left The Family To Be A Selfish Prick?
Mind your own fucking business for once.
I can do whatever I damn well want, I'm a grown man.

The sun dropped in the sky, streaking it with pinks and oranges, water color and finger painting, childish and ancient. Headlights caught the road, and Bobby's truck jutted around the bend. Sam was surprised to find a smile ready, light and cheery and pathetically out of place.

"Sam." He didn't say anything else, just pulled him into a close hug. He smelled like ash and leather and gun oil, and on instinct Sam hugged back. "He in there?"

"Um, yeah." Sam pulled away, suddenly feeling awkward, and pushed the bag held in his hand out towards Bobby. Bobby stared at it for a moment then took it. "Can you get rid of it? I wasn't sure how." Bobby nodded, lips pressing into thin lines between his teeth. "Uh, Bobby, can you...not be here for a while. I'm sorry, but I don't think Dean really needs two people watching him. If I wasn't his brother he would've bolted already."

Bobby's nodding before Sam can finish. "Yeah, Sam of course."

Without thinking, Sam pulls him into another hug, starting as the sound of breaking glass pushes its way from the house.

"I gotta go..."

"Yeah."

Sam watched as Bobby got into his old truck, pushing the bag away from him, next to the passenger's door. Sam could hardly blame him, there weren't enough miles to put between him and it. His brother and it...

Dean is kneeling on the kitchen floor,a pool of beer on the linoleum, shining on broken shards of the bottle. He jumps at Sam's hand on his shoulder.

"Here, let me."

"I dropped the damn bottle, Sam, chill." Sam nods and backs off. He won't baby Dean. That decision makes up the entirety of his plan.

Dean's knees are soaked in the thin liquid, disarray of papertowels haphazardly drawn against the white of the floor. The air smells of Dean's old sick fits, like beer and sweat, and Dean's wearing short sleeves for the first time in...four?...months, red lines slashing down, pinpoints of some self-inflected disease on his brother's arms. Sam doesn't want to look at him anymore, but he's shaking so now he just can't leave.

"Dean?" Dean waves an arm at him, tell him to go away, falling forward a little and leaning down on his palms, the wieght of his body locking in shaky muscles. "Alright Dean, come on." He's wet, and the smell of him makes Sam's eyes water a little, but he pulls Dean up slowly, one arm under both of his brother's, fighting off feeble little protests. Sam is coaxing them both into the little guest room, down onto their bed.

"Sam, I'm fine. I'm fine. Sam..."Hes almost stuttering as Sam pulls off his shirt. It's soaked with Dean's sweat and dabbles of Bud, cold clamy skin beneath it. Dean's jeans hit the floor with a tiny shlick, and Sam thinks distantly that the smell of beer will never come out.

"Alright, Dean. Alright. Come on." He's pulling Dean under the covers, cocooning him.

"Sammy? Just...stay." He's on his side, but Sam thinks he might be close to tears. "It hurts. Stay." This isn't Dean, broken and pleading, isn't Dean, but Sam tucks himself behind this body anyway.

"Never would have left."