So another chappy posted!! now to get back to Charlie and Sam buried underground...thanks for reading will update soon as this story just doesn't want to wait!! thanks for the awesome reviews!! thay are golden!! bambers;)

Chapter Seven

"Find anything yet, Sammy?" Dean asked as he pushed aside his half-eaten burger, his stomach churning too violently to down another bite.

Sam glanced over the top from his computer at Dean, and then lowered his head. "Not much. Found some information about the patients who stayed there. Only one name of real interest though. Bo Raskins," Sam said, careful not to give away the fact that he'd gotten the information from Bobby, knowing how angry Dean would be. "He was one of the last patients admitted to Roosevelt."

"And why," Dean hesitated just long enough to have Sam look in his direction again, "An' why. . . ."

Dean's voice trailed off again, and Sam could tell he was trying his damnedest to recall what they's been talking about. After a few agonizing moments of silently praying Dean would remember on his own, Sam finally prompted, "Bo's of interested because why he was sent there."

"Would've remembered it, Sammy," Dean snapped harshly. "Just needed a few . . . never mind. How the hell would you understand anyway." He stood and paced the small expanse of the room, mumbling to himself.

"I was just trying to — "

"Don't need your help." Dean stalked to the table, snatched one of his journals off of it, and shoved it in Sam's face. "That's what I have these damn things for. Whole freakin' lot of help they are, too. About as useless as that damn computer."

"Sorry, Dean. Was just . . . just thought maybe . . . don't know what to say. I'm trying my best to find an answer, I just need a little more time."

"Don't have time. Not for computers or stupid journals that are filled with meaningless garbage. Everything's slipping away." Dean's voice broke on the last words, and he quickly turned away so Sam wouldn't see how terrified he was.

Dean didn't mean to be taking his anger out on his brother, knew it wasn't his fault, but the longer it took to find answers meant there probably wasn't any to find. He knew if Sam couldn't find a solution before it was too late he would forevermore blame himself, and that hurt Dean almost as much as knowing he soon wouldn't even remember his brother.

He didn't want Sam to have to be straddled with having to take care of him in the eventuality, knew he was dangerous not only to himself, but others as well. Trouble was, he didn't know how to broach the subject that weighed heavily upon his mind in lucid moments. Dean was absolutely certain Sam would argue with his decision. Hell, he hated the idea himself, but he couldn't let that keep him from doing what was right, especially if it meant Sam was protected from being hurt by him again.

"Been givin' it a lot of thought, Sam, and when I . . . when things get real bad again," Dean's voice faltered, an uncomfortable knot forming in his throat. Clearing it, he continued, "When things get real bad, I want you to have me committed."

Hearing that, Sam was on his feet so fast, the chair he was sitting on flew backwards and hit into the wall with a loud bang. He stormed to his brother, grabbed his arm, and swung Dean to face him. "Not gonna do that. You hear me? Not gonna let you give up. No matter what, we stay together . . . no matter what."

"I'm not asking you, Sammy. I'm telling you."

Sam shook his head. "No, I won't do it."

"What are you gonna do? Watch me every second?" Dean pushed away from Sam, and turned his back on him, tears filling his eyes. "Cause that's no life for either of us." Angrily wiping away the tears from his cheeks, Dean swung back to face him again. "I could hurt someone . . . hurt you, and I would rather die than to do that."

"Think I can't save you, Dean? Think I can't figure this out?" Sam's voice was filled with so much sadness and remorse, it ripped Dean's heart to shreds. "All I'm asking for here is a little faith and just a little more time. You fight this with everything you have in you, and I'll find the answer."

"And what if you don't? What if there's no solution?" Dean gestured toward Sam's bandaged arm. "What if next time I shoot you in the heart instead of the arm?" He then pointed at his journal. "Hell, I guess I could write it down. Would make for interesting late night reading. Not sure what I would write though. Maybe something along the lines of, shot the hazel-eyed man in the heart, watched him bleed to death, and I'm not sure where I left his body to rot."

Tears filled Sam's eyes at Dean's words. "I'd never let that happen. I can take care of you, and protect myself at the same time."

"That's the point, Sammy, I don't want you to have to take care of me. And I may be mental, but I'm not stupid, eventually I would end up killing you."

The look in Sam's eyes, and hard determined set of his jaw, told Dean he was not getting through to him. He knew his brother's stubborn streak had kicked in, and that Sam was hellbent on not doing what Dean needed him to do. "Sam, don't let me become a danger to you and others. That would be worse than going insane."

Sam was silent for a minute, and then slowly shook his head, pursing his lips. "No, what would be worse is if I just gave up on you. You'd never do that to me. Never." He stalked back to the table, snatched up the chair, slumped down onto the seat, and resumed his search.

As Sam scoured the internet, he kept an eye on Dean, fearing that at any moment his brother might be gone, replaced by the man who could shoot him in cold blood. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew Dean was right. It nearly killed him to admit it, even to himself, but Dean would be very dangerous if he lost his mind.

Sam wasn't so much worried about himself, but for others who wouldn't be able to defend themselves against someone like Dean who had been raised to be a living breathing weapon. But no matter what, he was certain he would never be able to do what Dean had asked of him.

Opening Dean's first journal, Sam reread the first page. He had to be missing something. The journal for all its ramblings was complete. The answer was there, he was almost sure of it. Okay, so far I have focused on what Dean remembers, but what if the solution lies within the hunts we've never been on?

He slowly turned the pages until he came to the first hunt that wasn't one of theirs, and read it through. The first two paragraphs gave sketchy details of a hunt for a werewolf in New Mexico, but it was the last paragraph that caught Sam's attention:

It's cold and dark, and the shadows creep upon me as I await the demon. Eyes like that of a serpent, breath like fire. It swallows me whole and I am forsaken, left to wander in desolation for eternity. It is all my fault. All of it. It is too much to bear. Dean

Sam reread the lower portion of the passage again, his steady gaze focusing on the second to last sentence as he recalled Dean saying nearly the same thing at the asylum. He didn't know why he'd missed it before. He tore through the pages looking for similar passages, and found they also spoke of a demon, being lost, and again of blaming himself for whatever had happened.

"Dean, what if these hunts we've never been on, aren't really hunts at all?" Sam hesitated a moment, thinking about the first one in New Mexico, and then added, "And if they are, maybe that's not the reason why you wrote about them in the first place."

"What do you mean?"

"What if they're emotions? Maybe yours or maybe this other hunter's."

"Not following you."

Dean rubbed his temples with his fingertips, and Sam could tell by his brother's pained expression the voices inside his mind were once again growing to an unbearable level.

"I'm talking about emotional demons. Maybe this other hunter felt so guilty about something that it ate away at him until there was nothing left."

"That's if there was . . . ." Dean's voice faded away, but his mouth remained slightly open. He squinched his eyes closed. "If there was. . . ." Pressing the palm of his hand against his forehead, Dean's fingers gripped onto his scruffy hair. "Damn it. What the hell was I gonna say?"

"Another hunter," Sam quickly supplied, and instantly regretted it as Dean glared at him. "There was another hunter. His name was Bo Raskins," Sam said in a breathless rush, not giving Dean a chance to argue with him again. "He was a patient at Roosevelt."

"An what did . . . what — " Dean gripped onto the back of the chair, arms trembling, his knuckles whitening with the force he was exerting to keep himself standing upright. His breath came in short panted bursts as he squeezed his eyes closed even tighter. "Oh God, why won't they go away. Never go away. Want them outta my head. They won't go . . . won't leave me alone."

Sam rushed to Dean's side, gripped hold of his hands, and forced him to let go of the chair. "Fight this, Dean. Fight it for me. Don't you let it win."

"Can't. Too loud. Too damn loud."

"Focus on my voice. Drowned them out." Looking over his brother's shoulder, Sam quickly searched the room for any objects that Dean might hurt himself with or could be used as potential weapons, glad now that he'd locked his brother's knife in the trunk of Impala.

On the bedside table, he spied the first aid kit, and recalled a half-empty bottle of mild sedatives inside it. They wouldn't be strong enough to knock Dean out, but maybe they would calm him down. Trouble was, would Dean take them from him or would he fight him again? Sam didn't want to have to physically knock him out again, he'd already felt horrible for having to do it at the asylum.

"I can help you with the pain, Dean, but you gotta trust me."

"No. Can't. You want to trick me. You lie. Trying to take it away from me. They said so. They told me."

Sam let go of Dean's wrist and snatched his journal off the table. Opening it to the last entry, he shoved it into Dean's hand, and gestured to what Dean had written about him. "If you can't trust me, then trust yourself. Read it."

"The man with hazel eyes is named Sam. He is my brother. I can trust him. Dean," Dean read aloud, a slight tremor in his voice. Sam watched his brother's lips move as he silently reread the words over and over again, and then Dean glanced up at him, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "Sam?"

"Yeah." A sad, rueful smile played across Sam's features.

"Don't wanna do this anymore. Just want it to stop."

"I know."

Sam headed for the table between the two beds. Once there, he opened the kit, took out the small orange bottle, opened it, and shook two into his hand before closing and placing it back with the medical supplies.

Walking back to his brother, Sam extended his hand to give them to Dean, and saw the look of mistrust cloud his eyes again. "It's okay, Dean. I swear they're just to calm the voices."

Dean read what he'd written again, his hands trembling so badly, Sam thought he might drop the book. After several agonizingly slow seconds past where Sam wasn't sure if Dean would actually take the pills, his brother finally snatched them out of Sam's hand and dry swallowed them.

Any relief Sam might've felt at the sight of his brother trusting him was short-lived. He knew he couldn't continue drugging Dean or knocking him unconscious every time he had another break with reality. What if Dean's right? What if it gets so bad, I have to have him locked up?

His mind refused to accept the fact that he couldn't help Dean. No, I have to be right. It has to have something to do with emotions. Guilt, fear, rage . . . rage.

Suddenly the memory of Doctor Ellicott's words echoed repeatedly inside Sam's head. Don't be afraid. I'm going to make you feel all better.

That son of a bitch. Sam stormed to his computer, and typed in Doctor Ellicott's name, cross-referenced it with Bo Raskins', and waited for a reply.