TRIGGER warning for this chapter for graphic violence - not that it's been lacking so far, but it does get kind of hairy for a paragraph or two here.

It might be morning. He can't be sure, doesn't trust his instincts, but the birds are making that sharp sound outside again – he forgets what it's called, forgets if it's supposed to hurt – and the light doesn't quite burn. Yet.

He's been venturing out of the fog; he finds himself tasting the food he eats more often, noticing when he's cold, and once or twice he's been aware of a kind of pain that isn't the ghost of a knife in his gut or the ripping of flesh, just the solid ache of unmoving muscles, tired bones.

And there's Dean. All the love and the pain and the guilt of him, right there when he fades back into temporary, shattering lucidity. He can't decide if his brother is the reason he's been climbing up from inside the abyss, or the thing that keeps sending him back down.

Because something about talking, listening, watching Dean's face as he tells him that all this fear and confusion are what's real – that he needs to stay – feels impossible; feels like a punishment, and he knows all about punishment. But Dean wouldn't want him to hurt, not unless there was a reason. And it feels like this Dean is real, not the twisted, hollow, grinning facsimile of his brother that was the worst part of the Cage.

And so he's been trying to anchor himself, trying to string all of Dean's words together and say the right things back, and sometimes it feels like he can. But it never lasts; things keep disintegrating, all his lights dimming without warning. Or maybe he just misses the warning - it feels like Dean somehow sees it coming, and the last thing he hears is always the rasp of abandonment in his brother's voice as he fades away along with everything else.

He wonders again if it's possible to always be out, in the light where everything is too sharp and crisp and loud, every color saturated like blood (so much red; he kept thinking that the human body couldn't hold that much blood, except he wasn't human anymore, not down there with Lucifer, just a chew toy just pieces of string and bone just pain wrapped in weeping flesh carved out again and again smile Samuel let me see those teeth).

But it's morning, or it might be, and he's here for now. He tries to focus, to get his bearings. He looks around the room.

His eyes trace the contour of a prone form occupying the TV chair, its back turned to him. He isn't sure at first if it's Dean, but then he spots a familiar shudder when something creaks above their heads (floorboards, Ellen must be upstairs. Has he spoken to her yet? He can't remember. An overwhelming urge to apologize, to explain, to beg for forgiveness though he isn't sure what for, exactly. For being here, maybe. For being here like this. For being).

Dean's shoulders twitch again. It's a motion Sam has come to know so well over recent years that it's become part of his routine, like brushing his teeth or cleaning the weapons. So many dark motel rooms, watching his brother shake in his sleep under the blanket. After the first few tries he gave up on talking to him about any of it, on asking – the nightmares, the jumping at noises, that time he woke up at around 3 A.M. and Dean was slumped in the corner by the door, hands pressed against his eyes and bare feet bleeding from the rock salt he himself had poured in the usual, neat line over the threshold before they turned in for the night.

He watches as Dean relaxes back into his version of sleep, and even if he could wake him up right now without taking a panicked punch to the face, he wouldn't. He gets up slowly, the world still swimming around him, the cool air syrupy thick. Tries to decide what to do next.

Kitchen. Was he in the kitchen last night? A blurry image of Dean's face (he was trying to smile and somehow that was too painful to watch), of Dean's eyes red and tired, whisky on his breath. So much like dad. A dream, maybe; it's hard to tell the difference between things that happen when he's asleep and when he's awake anymore.

The floor feels uneven as he walks. He leans on the doorjamb for balance before he looks up to study the small room. Nothing out of the ordinary: the sink is empty and clean, there's a pan soaking on the stove. A faint smell of something charred and he tries hard not to think about a thing, not one thing because there are so many images that go with that smell and no, no, no.

A rustle in the bushes outside the window catches his attention. He isn't sure why his body reacts to it the way it does, why his hand reaches for the knife resting on the counter. He pulls back and stands there, unsure and swaying; he listens.

Nothing. Probably just a small animal or the wind. But now that he's become aware of the outside again he suddenly wants to go, to feel that wind on his face. Before there's too much light to bear, before he slips away.

Dean sighs behind him just as his hand touches the doorknob, and he turns on his heels, the room spinning and blurring at the edges of his vision. His brother is still fast asleep, though, and he tells himself the sound wasn't a warning or a plea, just walk out there he'll be fine just go.

Miraculously, the door doesn't make a sound as he slides through it (not a ghost you're here you're real stop it) and he hears Dean's hitched breathing from inside the house, fading away as he carefully advances across the front porch and inches his way down the steps.

The world is huge without walls to shield him from it, an assault of light and color and smell, too much to process. He squints at the trees, the gravel, the patches of grass that seem oddly familiar. A shiny, black mass just to the right of him catches his eye: the Impala, home. Dean. No, Dean is inside, asleep.

He suddenly wants to call for his brother, a reflex that comes out of nowhere, an old ache deep and vicious like a stab wound and he grits his teeth and breathes long and slow against the panic, don't, don't - -

Something solid. Something real. He turns back to look at the house. There's light in a window upstairs, and he thinks he sees Ellen's silhouette moving behind yellow curtains. He doesn't remember getting here. How can he not remember getting here? Feels like he should know, like the mere thought should bring up information: an image of pulling up to the house, hugging Ellen, walking up those steps. But there's nothing.

Wind chimes move in the breeze, a blur of red and purple and green swirling like strange, captive birds and he thinks that they must have come with the house, because no hunter would add another outside sound to listen for. He wonders why Ellen never took them down. Maybe she couldn't. He should ask –

The fragmented, dreamy harmony the wind chimes make reaches him just then, somehow delayed, like his brain is having a hard time taking everything in at once. And suddenly the clear notes morph into something else, into the sharp pitch of glass breaking, shards raining on the floorboards of a different porch, and he remembers. He couldn't see but he heard it, and the screaming too, and he tried to move away, swim back to safety because if she ever got to him again - -

The memory fades before he can grab at it, receding like a snake from a bite. He vaguely registers the sound of a car door slamming shut, too late and too far away because he's spinning, or the world is spinning, something is making it hard to breathe again (again?). He should have called for Dean when he had the chance, he never should have gone outside like this, never should have gone on that hunt alone, Dean said to never go alone, Dean said wait for me and dad keep your head down don't look it in the eye , dad said shoot it Sammy it's okay you need to practice, why didn't he just - -

He knows this sinking feeling, the way time is folding in on itself and slowing down. Like wading through a lake of molasses, like falling without ever reaching the bottom. Everything is draining of color, his knees begin to buckle and he thinks maybe he should be holding on to something, but he can't remember where he is. He's been trying to get somewhere. Where was he going?

A new sensation. He tries to concentrate. Touch; there's a big, warm hand cradling his face - he smells gasoline and tobacco and alcohol and it's not Dean, that much he knows, and can't be dad because - -

"Bobby," he hears himself say, and the name jolts him awake, pushes him up towards the surface and suddenly everything is sharp again, there's sound and the wind is in his hair and he blinks, then focuses on a familiar face right in front of him.

Bobby's eyes are wet, his smile is off somehow, though Sam can't tell why. "Hey, boy. You talkin' again, huh? It's damn good to see you. How are you feeling?"

He tries to come up with an answer that won't break anyone's heart.

"B - Bobby," he says again, and watches the man's face crumple. As he feels himself being pulled into a crushing hug he wonders where all his words went, but decides he doesn't miss them. He tucks his chin into the faded khaki of an old vest he's forgotten about and sighs, feels Bobby's arms grip him harder at the sound, feels fists curling against his back.

"Okay," Bobby says, "okay. Okay."

They all keep saying that.

Inside now, he's somehow back inside the house, though he doesn't remember deciding to go in. Bobby's hand is on his shoulder and he doesn't remember how it got there, either. His eyes land on Dean just as his brother sucks in a ragged breath at the sound of the door swinging closed behind them and struggles to sit up, his eyes wide and unfocused with sleep. "Sammy, don't - "

"It's okay," Bobby says, "it's just me. I got him."

Dean seems to calm down at that, rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Shit, sorry, I thought - " He clumsily rises to his feet and makes his way towards them, and Sam thinks he looks too pale and exhausted for having just woken up. Bad night, probably.

"I'm okay, Dean," he says, and his voice feels like it's coming from the other side of the room, foreign and muted in a way that's all wrong, but he ignores it for now. "Went outside for, um, some - - some fresh air?"

He doesn't mean for it to sound like a question, but he suddenly isn't sure why he was out there. Or whether going outside for air is something people do.

His brother's face drains of what little color it had. He must have done something to cause this, but he can't tell what.

"You – " Dean takes a breath, then another, and forces a weak smile. "Sammy, wake me up next time you do that. I'll come with you. Okay?"

"Probably a good idea," Bobby says, and Sam follows his gaze down to find that he's missing a shoe; he stares blankly at his mud stained sock for a moment, surprised. He didn't even notice it, though he must have stepped on rocks in the front yard - a dull ache in the sole of his foot tells him he did. It wasn't there a moment ago. His fingers seek the scar on his left palm, real, real.

He shrugs Bobby's hand off and backs into the wall, accidentally hitting a shelf. The sharp pain in his upper back helps, he isn't sure why, and he blinks. Dean asked something.

"Oh," he says, and then adds, sheepishly, "didn't wanna wake you."

"It's okay." Dean seems to mean it, too. He must be in serious trouble. "It's just… it's better if you don't go outside alone, for right now. Until we figure this out, get back to normal." The last word rings hollow, somehow, but Sam doesn't linger on the tone because what, what - -

He desperately doesn't want to ask, but he has to know. "What do you mean, 'figure this out'? What's going on?" Why am I like this please please -

Dean looks wide awake now; he looks terrified. Sam can't remember when he last saw his brother look so scared while being fully conscious. Maybe when the hellhounds came, back when he hadn't died yet. What a strange life they lead.

"I'm… I don't know if it's a good idea to talk about it right now," Dean says, and the distant ring of alarm in the back of Sam's brain upgrades itself to a siren, because fuck, if Dean is afraid to even tell him - -

"Please," he hears himself say, the words pushing out through numb lips because he only has so long before he'll be gone again, and his body is already severing ties, disconnecting from his mind, or maybe it's the other way around, "please, just tell me. I - - I can't. Like this."

Dean looks at Bobby, and Sam wants to cry because now he knows his brother is scared, and suddenly he's not all that sure if he wants to hear his response. He sits heavily down on the sofa, his hands digging into the cushions. Real.

"Please," he says again.

Dean's head is pounding when he first wakes up early in the morning, heart in his throat. He isn't sure why, for a second, thinks it's one of his nightmares, but then the door makes another noise and he remembers. Sammy. Shit, where's Sam don't let him go - -

But his brother is standing a few feet away from him, Bobby by his side, firm hand planted on Sam's shoulder. He can breathe.

He doesn't ask the older man what he's doing in Ellen's house, or why he apparently drove through the night to get there. Bobby came because there was no other way, same as there's never been any other way for either of them. Dean is just fine with that.

It takes him a minute to really get what Sam is saying when he speaks, because his brother sounds so… normal. Went outside for some fresh air, no biggie. Last night Sam was so fragile, so unsure, struggling to complete sentences, to understand. Now he seems practically himself, and even though Dean knows that won't last, the sheer relief that floods him almost makes him cry.

It only lasts a second before the meaning of the words truly hits him. Sam went outside, unguarded, unsafe, alone. He could have blanked out and wandered off to God knows where, completely vulnerable to everything out there that would love to hunt a Winchester. Or to humans, not like there aren't enough of those that would be a danger to him when he's so open, so damn exposed. Shit.

He tells Sam not to do that, tries to sound casual, like it's completely normal for a man in his thirties to need a chaperone just to go out to the front yard. But one of the disadvantages of his brother being focused and fully aware is he can't fool him. Sam asks the question they've been dreading. He wants to know what's wrong with him.

Dean looks at Bobby, suddenly helpless. I can't tell him what happened. He'll go away again, I can't, how - -

Bobby nods, tries to smile, and Dean knows what he's thinking. It's time. Leaving Sam to wonder why he keeps losing hours and days and pieces of his consciousness is unfair. If he's aware enough to notice that there's something wrong, he needs to be told.

But it's fucking hard to get the words out.

"Alright, Sammy," he says, and then stops.

There's a long moment of silence in which he and Sam float on what feels like opposite ends of the room, a wasteland of space between them wide and empty, and Dean's voice echoes in his own ears as he finally continues.

"You're in… in recovery, I guess. You were taken by a witch you were following. She, um. She used a willpower binding spell."

Sam turns a deathly shade of pale and says nothing. Just nods. Dean continues, feeling like he's draining the life right out of his brother with every word. It's no use; Sam won't let him back away from this.

"I don't have much intel on her, because I didn't know you were on a case." He keeps his tone neutral, just stating the facts, definitely not saying God damn it Sammy, if you had just told me I would have gotten her sooner. He knows it isn't fair, that Sam just needed breathing room and couldn't have known he was in over his head. Not like he hasn't done the exact same thing when there was tension between them, keeping Sam out of the loop just to gain some alone time.

"We kind of got on each other's nerves the week before, and I guess we both needed some space. By the time I realized you were gone, you were already under. Do you… do you remember the cabin?"

The recognition in Sam's eyes at the sound of the last word is crushing; Dean can almost hear memories click into place, like moving parts of an intricate bomb.

Sam nods again, his breath hitching. "I... yeah, kind of. I remember she made me sit, and then I remember there was screaming - - " he stops abruptly and looks up at his brother. "You killed her?"

Dean nods. "She had you tied up – I guess she knew the spell would only work a little bit longer – and she was waiting for me when I pulled up. She was on the front porch, having some fucking lemonade." He rubs his shoulder where it still hurts, will likely hurt for a long time. "She started giving me this speech, like a goddamn movie villain. You need to know what being hunted feels like, that sort of thing. Then she talked about you."

He can still see those icy grey eyes lighting up, I had other plans, but we'll just have to work with what we've got since Sammy's out of commission. Feels it all over again, his heartbeat stuttering at the words, his vision going red as he launched at her. Jagged glass grinding against the wood under his knees, the smell of lemons and blood and then earth – they must have rolled right off the porch, though he doesn't remember the way down – and the sound of her voice reciting in Latin. Her lips forming the words around broken teeth as she lifted her grinning face from the mud and turned to him, the glint of a knife - -

He shakes his head. "I had to kill her, and I did, and then I went inside the cabin. You were - you were sitting in a chair, and your eyes were open, but you were pretty out of it. And you stayed that way," he tries to keep his voice level, "for… for a while. My guess is that's why she locked you in there and went outside to wait for me. Something went wrong and she couldn't get to you anymore."

Sam is blinking hard, like he's trying to process the information and failing. He looks simultaneously exhausted and terrified, his fingers trailing up from the faded fabric of the sofa to dig into his palm again.

"Hey, stay with me. You okay?" Dean reaches out, but his brother flinches away, his eyes glassy and his breathing labored. "N - - don't. Don't."

"Sammy, look at me. Don't go under again. Hey! You're safe, it's okay. It's okay."

Sam looks up wordlessly – at least he's making eye contact – and Dean suppresses a shudder at the sight of that familiar, vacant expression.

"You're not back there. She's dead, and you're with me and with Ellen. Come on."

Sam's gaze seems to clear a little at the sound of Ellen's name.

"We're – "

He looks around, then sighs.

"Right." He stares down at his feet for a long time, then frowns.

"How'd you get me here?"

Dean closes his eyes. "You weren't doing so well, but you were conscious. So I got you to follow me to the car, and I drove us here. We stopped for the night at a motel. You probably don't remember that part."

Sam sighs again. "No."

"That's okay," Ellen says from the doorway - damn woman can be as sneaky as a mouse, not that she needs to sneak around in her own home - and comes in to sit by Sam. "Hey, Singer."

Bobby nods and produces a noise that's probably meant to sound amicable. Sam looks up at Ellen, his eyes too bright, his lips pressed tightly together like he's desperate to keep something in. He's always done this, Dean thinks; as emotional as Sam is, all that openness only lasts until he worries that his pain might be a burden.

He watches his brother lower his gaze back to the carpet, fighting through whatever wave of misery is attacking him at the moment. Sam curls into himself, the corners of bony shoulder blades that muscle could never quite cover protruding through the soft flannel of his old shirt like the stems of severed wings (don't think about how Cas was torn apart in that field, about the fine mist of blood and abandoned grace in the air, stop just stop). Dean wants to gather every blanket in the house and wrap it around his brother like that will somehow cure him, pour a bowl of John Winchester's sad version of soup down his throat, because he doesn't know what else to do for him, and that uselessness hurts almost as much as watching Sam struggling to hang on to awareness.

Ellen shifts to sit closer to the hunched figure on the sofa. "We've been missing you," she says, and Dean wills his eyes to stop stinging, his throat not to close, "you've been kind of… away in your head a lot. Do you know why?"

Sam blinks, tears that have been hanging from his eyelashes falling into his lap unchecked.

"N - no."

He's not crying now, though, not anymore. His voice sounds far away and sleepy, and Dean's chest hurts, and he desperately wants it all to stop. He's so tired. This will never be over.

"Sam," Ellen presses, and Sam shivers like he's forgotten she was sitting next to him, takes a raspy breath.

"S- sorry," he says, and his eyes search for Dean's, "I - - I think I… maybe I need to lie down for a minute."

That's good, Dean tells himself, he can tell when it's too much now, he knows when he needs a break. "Sure, Sammy," he says, threading his arms under Sam's and helping him up to allow Ellen to clear the space and pull out the mattress. "Let's just get you over here for a sec, okay?"

Sam nods dreamily. "Okay," he says, looking at Dean like he's trying to remember what he's agreeing to, "um."

And then he's gone, face going slack and body leaning heavily forward in Dean's grip, not quite unconscious but definitely not present, shit. Shit.

Bobby seems to share Dean's sentiment. "Dammit, I thought he was doin' better," he says, hand reaching out to touch Sam's arm and flinching at the utter lack of response. "Is he - - "

"It's fine," Dean says, avoiding the older man's eyes as he helps Sam down. "It's just a lot to take in." His hand hovers over his brother's shoulder as Sam slumps on the mattress, eyes closing and face grey. "You're good, Sammy. Just breathe."

He can feel Bobby's eyes drilling into him as he sits down by Sam's feet and leans back, but he still can't look up. Stop watching me like that, he's okay, we'll be okay.

"What," he finally snaps.

Bobby plays his role. Or tries, at least. "Watch your tone," he says, but there's no heat behind the words, no real anger, and his face softens as Dean does finally look up. "We need to talk. Probably better if we do it outside."

Even the thought of getting back up and walking out to the yard suddenly feels like a herculean effort, and Dean tries to find a way to say no, can't, please, but then Bobby adds, "I got an idea. Someone Sam needs to see. I don't know if - - "

Dean isn't sure how, but he's up on his feet. "Okay," he says, and somehow his voice is steady, "okay, let's go."