AN: OMG, another chapter so soon, you ask? Why yes! It's going to make up for the fact that I don't know when I'll be able to update next because I'm going to be packing so that we can hopefully move in September.

I'd like to apologize personally to Sam Winchester, I feel like I'm really putting him through a lot. So. Much. Angst. It's gonna get worse before it gets better, you all know that. Teensy tiny bit about the attack, few sentences is all, hardly worth mentioning, nothing graphic. And if you're wondering "Why Patsy Cline?" It's because I've seen a number of creepy movies where her music had been featured so now when I hear any Pasty Cline I get that creepy feeling.

Thank you guys for your continued support, I really appreciate it! Keep those reviews coming, it inspires me to write more!

I do not own nor am I affiliated with Supernatural, WB, CW, Kripke Enterprises, actors, or other affiliates there of. No profit is being made from this.

Sam carried his bags over to the dresser and set them down. He picked listlessly through his clothing. His stomach felt a little queasy when he found the blood stained garments at the bottom.

"Dude, we need to do laundry, or at least I do. I don't think I have anything . . . clean." He abandoned the duffel for the leather satchel.

Nothing clean, nothing clean, all dirty, stained, tainted, like he was. Sam tried to shove away the repetitive thoughts in his mind. They cropped up at the oddest moments.

Dean yawned, "We'll stop at a laundromat tomorrow."

Sam nodded absently, taking out his laptop, he needed a distraction. Maybe he could go back to that project of transferring all his father's research into the computer. Sam had started that just after John died but he was continually interrupted with hunts, he figured it would take months to finish. It would be something to do at least. In the end it would be great, complete with cross reference links, additional information that he and Dean collected, it would be a growing database. So much more convenient than searching through the journal, trying to decipher John's scribbling. He should scan the articles, photographs and sketches. It was probably a good idea to get an external hard drive to - to . . . oh . . . oh God no . . .

The laptop slipped from Sam's fingers as Patsy Cline's singing penetrated his thoughts. He spun around and stared at the radio that seemed to mock him from across the room. The song echoed hollowly in his ears, he tried to back away but he couldn't, his mind was getting foggy. Sam thought he heard Dean's voice call to him . . . Dean, he could help him, he could make it stop.

"Turn it off," Sam whispered, his whole body beginning to shake. "Turn it off, turn it off, turn it off, turnitoff, turnitoff, turnitoff, TURNITOFF!"

He clamped his hands over his ears and dropped to the floor.

Just make it stop, Sam thought desperately, squeezing his eyes shut, make it go away.

Sam can see the front of the van from here, hazy with cigarette smoke. The world outside is dark and cold, the only light is from the radio and the angry red glint of the cigarette. He struggles futilely against the hands that hold him down. Sam's arms are bound in front of him and there are too many hands on him, he can't get away, no escape. The music from the radio goes on and on but doesn't drown out the voices around him. Burning pain, ripping, tearing. . . the glow of the cigarette moves over the radio, the volume of the song rising as Sam screams . . .

"Sam? Listen to me, Sam, I need you to open your eyes. Look at me." A different voice replaced the music and Sam hastened to obey it.

Sam could feel a hand holding the back of his head and the steady thumping against his palm. Dark green eyes gazed into his own and he tried to concentrate on the words being spoken, this was the voice that made the music stop.

"Breathe with me, Sam." It said, "Take a deep breath, c'mon, in . . ."

Sam gasped, oxygen flooding his lungs, the darkness that had started to creep around the edges of his vision dissipated.

"Good," said the voice, "and out . . ."

Air left Sam in a gust. He couldn't seem to control his own breathing and the voice coaxed him through it. Soon he knew that the voice belonged to Dean, the hand was Dean's, the eyes were Dean's, the heartbeat under his palm was Dean's. Sam wasn't in a van, he was in a motel, he was safe, Dean was with him and he was safe and he could breathe again.

"Back with me?" Dean asked, concern lacing his voice matching the worry on his face.

Sam nodded slowly, "M'okay . . . m'okay."

Dean released the back of his head but still kept Sam's hand held over his heart. Sam looked around slightly confused, he was sitting on the floor, Dean was on his knees in front of him. Why was he on the floor, why were they on the floor?

"What . . .?" Sam blinked up at his brother.

"Panic attack," Dean replied, still watching him closely and tried to smile. "Apparently, you're not a big Patsy Cline fan."

"Patsy Cline?" Sam repeated, confused.

"Yeah, a song came on and you, well, you kinda lost it there." Dean answered slowly looking at Sam as though he was afraid Sam would have some sort of break down.

Sam tired to think about what just happened but it all seemed a bit hazy. Patsy Cline song, why would that set him off? He'd been trying so hard to forget about that night, shoving every memory away in the back of his mind hoping that in time, he could trick himself into believing it never happened. Just a bad dream.

Dream . . . Sam thought, dream . . . Sweet Dreams, wasn't that another Cline song?

"Oh," Sam gasped, "it was playing in the van."

"The van?" Dean tried to make eye contact but Sam was looking around the room, the vague memories becoming clearer.

"Yeah," Sam whispered. "Patsy Cline was playing in the van the whole time . . . the whole time . . ." He looked at Dean then and realized what he was saying. "I don't want to talk about it." He shook his head frantically.

Dean released his hand and leaned back a bit. He had an odd look on his face, like somewhere between disappointed and relieved. He chewed on his lower lip for minute and then nodded.

"Okay, Sammy." Dean finally said, "That's okay, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want."

Sam sighed and looked down a the floor again. "I'm tired."

Dean stood up and held out his hand, helping Sam to his feet.

"C'mon," Dean said softly, "lets get you to bed."

Sam didn't bother trying to argue against Dean leading him to the bed, turning back the covers and sitting him down. He knew that the panic attacks scared Dean, even if he wouldn't say so and it seemed to make him feel better when he could take care of Sam afterwards. Besides, panic attacks seemed to take up a lot of energy, energy Sam didn't really have to spare these days. So he let Dean remove his shoes, listened when Dean told him to lie down, and let Dean draw the covers up over him.

Dean leaned over and smoothed back Sam's hair, "Get some sleep." He whispered.

Sam just nodded, curled up on his side and closed his eyes. Before he fell asleep he randomly wondered if this was it felt like to have a mother.

*S*S*S*

Dean sat on the edge of his bed facing Sam, watching him for a long time before he finally allowed himself relax enough to be able to lay down to sleep.

Those tips on how to help some one through a panic attack had been a help. Sam had gotten through it quicker than the last two times. Then Dean had been almost certain that Sam was going to open up when he started talking about a van and Patsy Cline songs. Then when he looked at Dean he got that wide eyed frightened look and clammed up again.

It wasn't as though Dean wanted to hear about what his younger brother had gone through. Truthfully, he could probably happily go through life never having Sam share that information with him. However, he knew that Sam would eventually have to talk about it.

It would have been better if Sam had some one else he could talk to but their lifestyle didn't really offer the opportunities for outsiders. John hadn't trusted anyone after Mary died, not even other hunters, so Sam and Dean weren't the most social people. Social to a point of getting information and not being complete nomads but not really the "making best friends for life" type of social. Oh, Sam had almost gotten there once, had his girl, had friends had a life. Then Dean came along and yanked him right out of that comfy normalcy and back into hunting.

Selfish really but what was Dean supposed to do? Dad left, went missing and he was alone, searching the globe for his father, he needed some one to help and there was a big wide hunting network out there that he barely even knew existed, people that he didn't know and didn't trust. Dean didn't trust them because John didn't trust them. He went to the only person he knew for certain could help him, the only one he did trust, his brother Sam.

Look what happened. Got his girlfriend killed, interrupted that kind of life Sam always wanted and never had . . . now this. This would never have happened if it weren't for Dean. Sam would have been better off without him. Okay, so Dean was selfish, so what? His family was all he had, all he could ever remember having. He'd never say this to anyone but he needed his father and he needed his brother and now Sam was all he had left. He was terrified of losing the one thing, the only thing left that mattered. It wasn't about John's orders to look after his little brother, it was about Dean having the innate need to protect Sam. And wasn't he doing a bang up job of that?

Dean tossed restlessly on the bed wishing that his brain would just shut the hell up for once. Surely Sam wasn't the only thing that mattered to Dean . . . he had the Impala after all.

*S*S*S*

The next day dawn bright but frigid. Sam wanted nothing more than to burrow further under the blankets and sleep for another decade or two but Dean wasn't having it. Once he started threatening him with a bucket of cold water, Sam reluctantly dragged himself out of bed. It was time for his medicine anyway. In the mornings he had pills to take in addition to the ointments he had to keep applying.

"I was gonna go get some doughnuts and coffee." Dean stopped for a moment, looking at Sam, then shrugged, "Or I could wait until you're done. We could go together."

Sam could very well imagine that he had a look of abject terror on his face when Dean mentioned leaving him alone in the motel room, while he was showering no less. Sam frowned, how much more pathetic could he be?

"No it's fine," Sam shook his head. "You go ahead. I'll be okay."

Dean didn't look convinced, "You sure?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded and tried to smile, "I'll be fine, go on."

"Okay," Dean nodded, still watching him.

Dean picked up the room key and walked to the door, stopping he turned around, "You sure you'll be okay?"

Sam rolled his eyes, "Just go, Dean, I'm fine."

Dean nodded again, "I'll be right back."

Sam watched Dean leave and a moment later heard the Impala start up and listened as the motor faded away.

"I'm fine," Sam said to the empty room.

Sam took a shower, a very long, very hot shower. He just wanted to feel clean, not that he had much success. Outside the shower, he didn't bother wiping the steam off the mirror. Sam didn't want to see himself anyway. He knew what he looked like, thinner, bruised, tired. How could he still feel so tired after all that sleep? He had slept through yesterday afternoon and on through the night. He wondered if Dean had tried to wake him for dinner, if he did, Sam didn't remember it. At least he hadn't had any bad dreams, none that he could remember anyway.

Sam put on the same sweats that Dean had given him the day before. Still pretty much clean, can't get very dirty riding in a car. He wrapped his wrists in fresh gauze after putting the required ointment on them. It was a little awkward doing the right wrist but he managed okay. Sam's wrists weren't so bad anymore and he probably didn't even need the gauze but he didn't like seeing his injuries, it made things too real.

Dean came back and Sam couldn't believe how strong his feeling of relief was. He really needed to get a hold of himself. He couldn't go the rest of his life like this. Sam couldn't have Dean around holding his hand forever. Sam was practically afraid of his own shadow now. He needed to stop being so skittish, just square his shoulders and act like a man already.

Sam drank his coffee and picked apart a doughnut. He forced himself to eat most of it because Dean was watching him while pretending not to watch him. Nothing tasted good anymore, it was like eating cardboard. Most of his actions these days was just going through the motions. Shower, dress, eat, sleep, rinse, repeat. He was dreading the cabin, nothing to hunt, nothing to do. As though Sam didn't feel useless already.

They packed up the car and headed out again, only to stop a few blocks down the road.

"Needed to do laundry, right?" Dean said looking over.

Sam nodded numbly. It was still early in the day and the laundromat they stopped in front of wasn't busy. There were only four people. Two women and a couple. Okay, Sam could handle this. He'd been in a hospital for a week surrounded by people, he could do this. He'd eventually have to get use to being around people.

"You okay?" Dean asked warily.

Sam released a frustrated breath, "I'm fine, Dean. You don't have to ask me that every five minutes."

Dean held up his hands, "Just checkin', dude."

Sam and Dean did their laundry separately. Dean liked to take all his clothes, throw them in a machine together and hit "super wash". Of course, Sam liked to separate his clothes by whites and colors and jeans. Dean usually had a field day with that behavior. As Sam separated his laundry this time, Dean stood beside him watching.

"Dude," Dean shook his head, "you are so g -" he snapped his mouth shut.

Sam frowned at him, expression guarded.

"Girly," Dean said lamely. "So girly."

"Yeah," Sam said softly, loading the first machine in front of him, "I totally believe that's what you were gonna say." He added detergent.

"It was," Dean said defensively, "in fact, when you were born, mom and dad thought you were a girl. Named you Samantha and everything."

Sam rolled his eyes, "I'm sure." He loaded the second machine.

"It took a very strong magnifying glass to convince them otherwise." Dean grinned.

"Funny, Dean." Sam sighed, "Very funny . . . hey, what did it take to convince them about you? A microscope?"

Dean opened his mouth before he fully processed what Sam had said. As it visibly hit him, his eyes widened and his mouth closed with an audible click. Then he smirked, his eyes narrowing.

"Oh that's good, Sam," he said, "how many months did it take you to think of that one?"

"Great come back, Dean." Sam said mildly, loading the last machine with his clothes and detergent before adding quarters to all three washers.

"Shadup, Sammy." Dean gave him a playful shove and Sam chuckled.

This felt good, it felt natural and everything seemed normal for just that moment. Then when they sat down in the hard plastic chairs, the feeling faded and Sam shifted uncomfortably for a few minutes before announcing he was going to wait in the car. He still couldn't shake the feeling of being too exposed out in the open nor get over the "everyone is staring at me" feeling. Logically, he knew it was ridiculous, no one was paying any attention to him but he couldn't seem to make the rest of his psyche to accept it.

When the laundry was washed and dried, Dean stuffed his clothes into his duffel bag and took it out to the car. Sam folded up his clean clothes and placed them neatly inside. Except for the bloodstained ones, those were shoved to the bottom.

He was just zipping up his bag when some one bumped into him. Sam froze, gripping his duffel bag like a lifeline. It was one of the women, well, girl really, that he'd noticed before he came in. She looked to be about Sam's age. Honestly though it felt like he'd aged about ten years in the last week.

"Sorry," she giggled.

Sam watched as a pair of lacy panties fluttered to the floor, "Whoops." She said and looked at him almost expectantly.

When nothing happened she bent over slowly to retrieve the garment and the snapped back up again with another giggle. "I'm so clumsy sometimes."

Although Sam had a habit of being oblivious to flirting, even he couldn't miss the signals this girl sending. He supposed she was pretty with her glossy black hair and wide grey eyes. Although he could appreciate her looks, he was in no way interested. Sam wanted to get away but couldn't seem to force himself to move, he felt trapped.

Can't move, can't fight and don't struggle so much because it won't hurt so bad if you stop trying to fight it, just let it happen and it won't hurt so much.

Sam felt his breath coming in shallow pants. This can't happen, not here, not now. The panic attacks were bad enough on their own, he didn't need to have one in a laundromat to solidify the fact that he was no longer fit to be out in public. Where was Dean? His brother would know what to do, Dean would take care of him.

As though is thoughts had the ability to become corporeal, Dean was suddenly there gripping his arm firmly and tugging him along.

"C'mon Sammy, we're burnin' up daylight." Dean ignored the girl and only paid enough attention to Sam's stumbling walk to make sure he didn't fall over.

Once they were in the car and driving again, Dean kept glancing over at Sam. Sam was sitting rigidly, his hands still clenched on his duffel bag, staring wide eyed out of the window.

After about ten minutes, Dean finally spoke up, "I know you're getting tired of me asking this. In this case I think it's warranted. Are you okay?"

Sam blinked for possibly the first time since leaving the laundromat, before saying slowly, "Dean . . . I nearly had a panic attack because a girl was flirting with me . . . does that sound like it's even remotely in the realm of 'okay'?"

Dean shrugged, "Well, from what I saw, she was kinda laying it on a little thick in there. Maybe that's what had you freaked out? I know how you can be with girls, you get that 'deer in headlights look' and scurry away so -"

"I'm so fucked up." Sam nearly whispered sounding shocked.

Dean's face scrunched up, "Sammy -"

"Dean!" Sam cut him off, looking at his brother with wide horrified eyes, "I can barely stand being in a public place and obviously I freak out if some one wants to talk to me at all. God, what's wrong with me, is this how it's going to be from now on?"

"Sam," Dean tried again.

"Stop the car," Sam said suddenly.

"What?" Dean started.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," Sam said frantically, "Stop the car!"

They were still in town and Dean swerved into the empty parking lot of an abandoned fast food joint. The car behind him honked indignantly but Dean couldn't have cared less.

Deserting his duffel, Sam scrambled out of the car and managed to get a few paces away before his knees hit the pavement and he was on all fours. Dean hurried to his side. Sam made a horrible gagging sound but didn't actually vomit. He stayed like that for a few minutes panting, before sitting back on his knees.

"Sammy?" Dean reached down and touch his shoulder.

Sam looked up at him, eyes shiny and wet, looking miserable and disgusted.

"I don't want to be like this, Dean." Sam's breath hitched and his lips trembled. "I don't want to be this way."

Dean bit his lip, his own eyes filling with tears before he dropped down next to his brother, taking Sam into his arms, not caring about anyone who might see.

"It's okay, Sammy." Dean whispered into Sam's dark hair, "We're gonna get through this. We're gonna make this right, you hear me?"

Sam nodded against Dean's chest, drinking in the comfort of his brother's embrace.