Supernatural? Not mine.

Many thanks to red121, Left Hook, the Cat's Whiskers, mtee1958, feline666, SpectralScribe, PissedOffEskimo, PadfootObsessed329, Nana56, SilverKitsune1, sugarquill4ron, carocali, Liz Bach, sasha2002, MistyEyes, roxy071288 and bally2cute for taking the time to write such kind reviews. Seriously, you are all so lovely. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint! (Although I think one or two of you might be a little disappointed with a certain aspect...)

----

But for the Grace, Chapter Twelve

They had to get off the road, because Dean had been driving for sixteen hours straight and his ribs were really freakin killing him, plus he'd had about as much sleep as a freakin college student on speed and Red Bull in the last few days and he was starting to see weird shit at the edges of his vision (and some of it was creepy, like freakin bunny rabbits, what the hell were they doing in his subconscious?). Of course, there was always the option of letting Sam drive, since he was currently in better shape than Dean (and that was pretty terrifying, given the crappy shape Sam was in), but then there was the whole thing about Sam being on drugs, not to mention the visions.

Yeah, let's not mention the visions. Sam hadn't had one since the previous evening in the motel, and Dean was beginning to feel panic thrumming in his fingertips again. It was weird, because normally he hated the visions and would have done pretty much anything to get them to just fuck right off and leave Sam (leave them both) alone, but the fact that the last one Sam'd had involved Sam (the other Sam, Jeez, maybe he should come up with names for them, like Pinky and Perky or something, except neither of them was really very perky) being abducted from a mental asylum by demons, and that they didn't know for sure yet whether they'd managed to stop that shit from happening, meant that every minute that went by made Dean more nervous. Sam had had a vision every day since the first one at Jim's; if he didn't have one today, Dean had a terrible feeling that it would mean more than just a welcome break from the old routine.

So it was lucky, Dean supposed (he had the feeling that if he looked in the dictionary under lucky he'd find his definition of it had been thrown seriously out of whack recently), when he heard Sam grunt behind him as he unlocked the door of the motel room they'd just checked into, and turned around to see his brother in a heap on the asphalt, his arms wrapped protectively around his head. Dean squatted down instantly, not that there was much he could do but he kind of felt like if he didn't sit helplessly as close to Sam as possible, if, say, he sat helplessly on the other side of the room, then that would be admitting defeat, and OK, maybe that was lame, but Dean was not an admit-defeat kind of guy.

Sam came out of it gasping and trembling, but the first thing he did was grab Dean's arm and say it's OK, Dean. It's OK. Sam's still in the hospital.

Dean sat back on his heels and allowed himself the luxury of a single moment of falling apart. Sam's definition of OK was about as fucked-up as Dean's definition of lucky, but that was all right, because they were brothers and they were supposed to have some shit in common, and maybe it wasn't OK OK, but they had bought themselves some time at least. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, cleared his throat, and clambered to his feet. "Come on," he said. "Let's get inside before it starts fucking raining again."

----

Dean was tired. No, Dean wasn't tired, Dean was freakin exhausted, Dean felt like he'd spent the last week carrying a freakin elephant up Mount Everest while whistling the entirety of Wish You Were Here (including all the guitar solos); there was one little problem, though, and that was that Dean couldn't get to sleep. No matter how much he tossed and turned, sighed and groaned, threw the blanket off and pulled it back on, sleep just fucking flipped him the bird and flounced off in the other direction, which was pretty much typical. It was thinking that was the problem, Dean decided, definitely thinking. Thoughts were chasing each other round in his head like they were on freakin coke or something (and the idea of his thoughts personified as red-nosed, wild-eyed minor celebrities was at least amusing enough to distract Dean for a moment, but sadly no longer), and he understood now why Sam always had trouble sleeping, because that guy had about ten times as many thoughts as a normal person.

Of course, right now Sam was snoring away peacefully in the next bed (and what that said about how much mental activity was going on in his head was something Dean might have bothered to try and construct a joke out of if he hadn't been so freakin tired), and meanwhile, thoughts of Sam were having a goddamn party in Dean's brain. They would get to California the next day, and maybe even in as few as twenty-four hours Dean might be back in his own reality, which was freakin great, wonderful, fantastic, except that it was also the worst goddamn idea that Dean had ever heard. And as far as Dean could tell, there wasn't a way out; OK, so his Sam seemed to be staying put for now, but who the hell knew how long that would last? And in the meantime, was he insane? How long would he be able to cope with constant visions before his mind disintegrated (if it hadn't done so already, but Dean was so not going there)? No, there was definitely no alternative but to get back there.

Which meant that he had to leave Sam.

Jesus Christ, how had this happened? All his life, Dean had known his first duty was to protect Sam, more important than anything else – Dad had told him that practically every freakin day, for Christ's sake, and OK, technically Dad was dead right now, at least in this dimension, but that didn't change a freakin thing. Sam was Dean's responsibility, and now Dean had seen just how fucked up his brother's life had become when he hadn't taken on that responsibility, he felt it all the more. So yeah, Dean had had one overriding order all his life, and, while it had sometimes (OK, a lot of the time) been a major pain in the ass (because seriously, how was it possible for one skinny little geek to get himself into trouble that often between school and the library?), it had made life simple, at least. Except now, there were two of them, and the only way that Dean would be able to keep an eye on them both would be to have them in the same place, which was...

Which was.

Wait.

Dean stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, wondering why the hell he hadn't thought of it before. He had transferred realities, and apart from a splitting headache and a series of not-so-hilarious adventures with a fucked-up little brother, he'd been fine. He'd been fine.

If he could do it, why couldn't Sam?

He chewed his lip, trying to imagine the two Sams in one place. Jesus Christ, it was a terrifying thought. No library would ever be safe again. Plus, he'd have to put up with twice the amount of bitching and moaning (and this Sam would probably teach his Sam about the effective use of sarcasm, which would really fuck up Dean's carefully-honed dynamic). Then he tried to imagine what would happen if he left this Sam behind.

Moments later, he was standing outside the motel room door, dialling Jim's number.

----

Morning broke slow and sulky, like the sun was pissed at having to get up so early or some such shit, but Dean felt better than he had in days. OK, so, yeah, his ribs still hurt like it was freakin going out of style, and his head felt kind of thick and woolly, and he still only had one boot (Jeez, they had to get around to stopping to buy him a new pair sometime, because driving barefoot was all very well, but sooner or later someone was going to mistake him for a hippy freak, and that someone was going to be very, very sorry), but he'd thought of a way to help this Sam, and that was the best news he'd had pretty much since he'd woken up in a motel room in Springfield and found his brother (and his car) gone.

Sam was already up, checking something out on the laptop, and he glanced over as Dean stirred and groaned.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," he said, and Dean gave him the finger.

"You take your pills?" he asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Yeah," Sam replied absently. "Why, you wanna share? Cos I gotta tell ya, Deano, if you think detox drugs are a fun way to spend a Saturday night then you've been doing it wrong, man."

Dean frowned. "It's Dean," he growled.

"Yeah, whatever," Sam said with a grin.

"Listen, Sammy," Dean said, "you don't seem to have got the hang of this whole banter thing we got going. I'm the funny one, you're the geek, geek."

Sam's grin broadened slightly. "You just keep telling yourself that, Deano," he breezed, and Dean almost reconsidered his plan. Almost.

Instead, he struggled out of bed and headed for the shower, throwing Sam a dirty look on the way. Sam wasn't even paying attention, which was just fucking typical.

----

When Dean got out of the shower, Sam had closed down the laptop, and was waiting, fingers tapping out a goddamn fandango on the tabletop, looking kind of like he was expecting to be taken out for walkies or whatever, the puppy-faced freak. "So?" he said.

"So?" asked Dean, finding himself a step behind as freakin usual.

"You're acting weird," Sam said.

"Jesus Christ," Dean muttered, "all I did was take a freakin shower."

"Exactly," Sam said, and he sounded like he'd just invented the goddamn distortion pedal or something.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Dean pulled his shirt on and tried to ignore the sharp pain from his ribs. He probably ought to get them looked at; whatever, there would be time when he was back where he was supposed to be.

"Just..." Sam shrugged, "you don't seem to be in a hurry, is all. Which is weird, for you."

Dean thought about that. It wasn't that he wasn't in a hurry, because, God knew, he still felt the urgency of needing to help his Sam throbbing in his veins right up to the roots of his hair, but Sam was right, he was stalling, and that was pretty weird, considering that all he had to do was tell Sam and then they could get going and this whole thing would be over finally and Dean could sleep for a week (except that with two goddamn Sams around he'd be lucky to be able to close his eyes for five minutes). So how come he hadn't just spat it out as soon as he woke up? He looked across at Sam, Sam who still didn't look that healthy, face shadowed with fading bruises, too thin, too pale, too hard. What if.

What if he says no?

Dean shook himself. Don't be a freakin moron. Just tell him. He opened his mouth, and the words came out before he'd really thought of how to put them together, all tangled up and rushed, and wasn't that just freakin typical, because Dean always had all the right words when he was charming a hot chick out of her pants, but he was about as eloquent as a freakin orang-utan when it really counted. Not that that really mattered, though, not that any of it really mattered when Sam stared at him like he'd just suggested they book a holiday at a concentration camp and then shook his head, and Dean felt his nervousness mutate into full-on fear, and yeah, OK, if there was a tidy pinch of anger mixed in that was no real surprise, right? Because Sam was. Sam was.

Sam was being an asshole.

"What the hell do you mean, you can't?" Dean growled, straightening up to his full height, and towering over Sam, who was still sitting at the table, his fingers still now. "Jesus, Sam, you really do have a freakin death wish, don't you?"

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Dean wished, wished so damn hard that he'd never said them, never even thought them, because the idea that Sam was going to die if Dean left him carved horrible gouges in the wall of his stomach. Sam, though, was looking away, his face kind of blank (which didn't mean anything, because this Sam was always hiding, always trying to hide), and he said, "Dean, listen, the prophecy--"

"Damn it, Sam, do not say another word to me about that goddamn prophecy," Dean started, but then suddenly Sam was standing up too, and now it was his turn to do the towering, the gigantic bastard, and the look on his face made the breath die in Dean's throat.

"Jesus Christ, Dean, why don't you ever listen?" he said, and he sounded like he was spitting bullets. "I know you think I don't know anything, that I'm just a helpless kid, but would you take a look at yourself, for once? You have no idea what you're doing, you don't know who sent you here and why, you sure as hell don't have a clue how to save your brother, and I do, I think I know, but you just won't listen to me. Why won't you listen?"

Dean took a step back, stunned by the force of Sam's outburst. He listened to Sam, though, right? He did. It was just that, a lot of the time, Sam said stuff that was stupid or didn't make sense or was just plain crazy, and there was no point listening to that shit, right? Sam didn't know what he was talking about half the time, because he wasn't really Sam, he didn't know about the stuff in the dark, and...

...OK, so maybe he didn't listen to Sam that much. At any rate, he was going to listen now, because Sam's face was set in bitter lines and his fists were clenched—in frustration or anger, Dean couldn't tell—and Dean may have been kind of insensitive or whatever sometimes, but he knew when it was time to sit down and shut up. He sank onto the bed.

"OK, Sam," he said. "OK. I'm listening."

Sam looked startled for just a second, then wary, and then blank again. He sat down himself, stiff-backed, his fingers tapping again in some rhythm that Dean couldn't quite get the hang of but that made the base of his spine itch.

"I've been thinking," he said finally, and his eyes flicked for a moment to Dean's, and Dean bit his tongue to stop any smartass remarks coming out, because Sam needed him to listen, and goddamn he was going to do that. Sam waited just a moment longer, then seemed to relax slightly, and said, "OK, so, like I said yesterday, the prophecy talks about 'tools' in human form that can destroy demons and that demons will want to control, right?"

"Right," Dean said warily, because he really did not want to deal with this prophecy shit again, but he'd said he would listen and now he'd have to be a pretty big asshole to back out.

"OK, now, it talks about one of these tools in particular, a sword, that will eventually be the demons' bane," Sam said, and after a moment added, "That means it'll kill them."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Professor," he said, but that was all.

"Now, the reason that the prophecy gives for the demons being unable to control this sword is that it's protected by a shield, which presumably is another one of the tools," Sam continued, his fingers redoubling their tapping, "and I think maybe... maybe that's you. Maybe I'm the sword and you're the shield."

Dean let his breath out in an explosive burst of air. "You said that yesterday, Sam," he pointed out, trying to sound reasonable, trying not to let the nervousness he felt in his belly edge his voice with anger. "You got any more evidence now than you did then?"

"Dean, we know that what's happening to your Sam has something to do with demons," Sam said. "We know he's having constant visions, and we know that's not normal for him, for us. You think it's a coincidence that that would happen to him pretty much immediately after you were removed from his reality?"

Dean stared. He'd thought about why Sam was having so many visions, of course, but he'd pretty much drawn a blank, especially given how little he had to go on and how little time he'd had to think what with all the other shit that was going on. "You think... What, you think he's having visions because I'm not there?"

Sam paused before answering. "Maybe. Maybe whoever or whatever is giving the visions to Sam sent you away to make it easier, maybe this is just what his power is naturally like and it would have happened years ago if you hadn't been around, maybe someone's just taking advantage of the fact that you're gone, but I find it pretty difficult to believe that there's no connection at all."

Dean tried to think, but God, it was all so fucking confusing. Zombies and ghosts and freakin hellhounds were one thing, but this, prophecies and destiny and the end of the world and crazy superpowers, this was fantasy territory and to be honest, it sounded totally ridiculous, like some guy in chainmail was going to burst through the door any minute and challenge them to a freakin joust or whatever. "So, what, the demons are trying to control Sam by giving him visions?"

"I don't know for sure, I don't know anything for sure," Sam said, "but... maybe they're trying to weaken his mind, or brainwash him, or something. At any rate, they're very interested in him right now, and there's got to be a reason for it."

Yeah, there's always gotta be a reason with you, doesn't there? Dean thought. He closed his eyes, digging the heels of his palms into his eye-sockets and wishing he'd at least had time for coffee before this craziness. "Why didn't the demon just kill me, then, if I'm so freakin important?" he said. "He coulda killed me a hundred times, hell, he coulda killed me when I was four freakin years old." Technically he did, here at least.

Sam shook his head. "Listen," he said, and pulled the book out of his pocket. "'The tools are immortal but they are poured into mortal shape.' You see?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You wanna translate for me there, college boy?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "It goes on to say, 'The sword and shield are immortal; they cannot be destroyed, though their mortal forms be damaged beyond repair.'"

"So you're saying I can't die?" Dean asked, and that definitely sounded ridiculous, because even though Dean was obviously far too pretty to die, there were still the basic laws of physics or whatever to be taken into account.

"No, you can die, obviously, but whatever... essence you have inside you is immortal. So killing you wouldn't do any good. That's why they had to get you out of the picture entirely."

"Essence," snorted Dean. "Dude, the only essence I want inside me is... never mind," he finished, after catching a glimpse of the frustration on Sam's face. "OK, OK, I'm paying attention. You really believe all this cr... stuff?"

Sam sighed. "I don't know," he said. "The prophecy's thousands of years old, it could refer to anything. But... it fits."

"Right." Not that it made any difference anyway, whether Dean was a freakin shield or just Dean, since it was his job to look after Sam whatever, and... wait a minute... "That still doesn't explain why you can't come back with me."

Sam looked up, as if he'd forgotten all about that part of the conversation in his excitement over the prophecy. Geek. "Wait, isn't it obvious?"

Dean shrugged. "No. I mean, you'd still be with me, right? So you'd be OK."

Sam shook his head. "Dean, you're not my brother. I mean, yeah, genetically you are, but this isn't science. We have no idea whether whatever power you have would be enough to protect two people, or even if it would recognise me at all. If all this is true, you're supposed to protect your Sam Winchester, not me."

"Hey," Dean said, "you're not going nuts right now, are you? I mean, I'm protecting you OK now?"

"I don't... think you're the one who's protecting me now," Sam said, very quietly, and Dean remembered the words of the prophecy, they cannot be destroyed, though their mortal forms be damaged beyond repair, and felt the hairs stand up on the backs of his arms, as if his dead four-year-old self was standing right behind him (and Jesus Christ, that would be creepy as hell, dead little kids are always the worst, even when they're not, you know, you).

"OK," he said, thinking as fast as he could, trying to assimilate all this new information and to ignore the part of his brain that just wanted to pretend he'd never heard it, "OK. But really, how likely is it that you're right about this, huh? I mean, like you said, it could be anything."

Sam looked down and his fingers stilled. "I don't know, Dean. For all I know I could just be a crazy drop-out with an imaginary brother and delusions of grandeur. But are you willing to risk it?"

There was no way that Dean could think of to answer that question, and so he didn't say anything.

"Anyway," Sam continued, "that's not the only reason I can't go with you."

"Oh please God," Dean groaned, "don't tell me there's more? What the hell other reason could you have for wanting to stay in this shithole reality?"

Sam's motuh twitched, his fingers started with the goddamn tapping again, and Dean was manfully resisting the urge to wring his neck when Sam said, "Because it's mine."

"What?" Dean felt his leg begin to bounce in time with Sam's tapping.

"It's my reality, Dean. It's my life. I've got to see it through."

"But..." Dean stared, trying to work out what exactly it was that Sam was saying, "it's totally fucked up."

"I know that. Don't you think I know that?" Sam looked away, looked down at his hand, out the window, anywhere but Dean, and then he did look and Dean kind of wished he hadn't. "I was born here, Dean, for better or worse, this is where I belong. I've got to see it through."

Dean wanted to say don't be an idiot or for God's sake, Sam or well, forget it, because you're coming with me, but what he actually said was, "I don't understand."

Sam smiled, and it was a real smile, even if it was kind of sad. "I know," he said. "That's OK." And then he stood up, picking up the laptop and the bag that contained everything the two of them had acquired since Dean had driven them out of Palo Alto (which consisted of a couple of changes of clothes, the guns and knives Dean had borrowed from Jim, the jars of bat's blood and assorted herbs, and Sam's books, and when Dean catalogued it like that in his mind he thought that maybe, maybe his life had some kind of weird priorities) and headed for the door. When he got there, though, and while Dean was still in the process of looking for his boots and remembering he only had one (Jesus, it was fucking ridiculous), he turned and sort of half-smiled and said, "I know you have to go back, and it's OK. It means a lot that you want to take me with you, Dean."

And he was out of the door before Dean could think of anything to say, so fast in fact that later Dean would wonder if he'd imagined the whole thing (except he knew he hadn't, because if he'd been busy having daydreams, they would not have been about Sam being fucking sappy). Dean stared after him, then sighed and started putting on his boot.

----

They crossed the state line into California around three, and Dean figured they were still about four hours away from their goal. Sam had been quiet most of the way, alternately reading the prophecy book and his Latin stuff, but his feet and hands kept up a constant drumming that was so not in time with Led Zep, and it was driving Dean freakin insane. Not that Sam noticed the dirty looks Dean was shooting him—apparently, Sumerians were way more interesting than Dean had realised (yeah, right). He did notice the gigantic Welcome to California sign, though, and he straightened in his seat, put the book down and said, "We'll be there soon."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious."

Sam glanced over, looking kind of surprised by Dean's tone, but Dean wasn't about to cut him any slack, because maybe his reasons for wanting to stay were kind of sensible (maybe), but it didn't change the fact that Dean was stuck with the same dilemma he'd had yesterday (and every day for too long now), and that made him nervous and angry and guilty all at once and Sam just would not stop tapping.

"Jesus," said Sam. "What the hell's your problem?"

Dean ignored him.

After a moment or two, Sam rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said. "Feel free to sulk all you want. Tell me what the plan is for when we get there."

Dean shrugged (oh, and by the way, he was so not sulking). "I go in, I do the funky spell thing, I go home." Yeah, cos it's really that simple.

Sam stared. "That's your plan? Jesus, I thought this kind of thing was meant to be your job or something."

Dean heard himself make a growling noise low in his throat. "You got something to say, say it."

"Right, so you're gonna walk into a private mental institution and say, Oh, hey, I wondered if you guys would mind if I did some witchcraft in here, only my brother's going nuts in another dimension, see, and I gotta get back to him? That's utterly lame."

Yeah, OK, when Sam put it like that it did sound kinda... underdeveloped, as plans go. But goddamn, Dean was tired, and he didn't know what to do, and all he knew was that soon he was going to have to make his choice, and it was going to be forever. "OK, college boy," he said, "you're so goddamn smart, what do you think we should do?"

He shouldn't have asked, he thought afterwards. He should never have asked, because he should have known Sam had been thinking about it, and it seemed like letting Sam think about shit was never a good thing, because he always seemed to come up with ideas that made Dean want to punch someone out.

"OK," he said now (and even the tone of his voice set Dean right on the path to realising that asking Sam what he thought had been about as great an idea as standing in front of a crazed zombie and shouting boo), "so the spell's a two-man job, and it takes time. We want to be as close to where your Sam is as possible, which means preferably we have to find the right room. There's no way we can do it during the day, because we'll be too conspicuous, but at night all the rooms will be locked, and it'll be pretty difficult to find the right one. That means we have to get inside during the day to do recon, and then again at night to do the actual spell."

Dean opened his mouth to ask how the hell Sam knew so much about how nuthouses worked, then snapped it shut again as he remembered why that was a dumb question. Sam didn't seem to notice.

"When I was... In my experience," he said, looking out of the window now, "the only people allowed on a closed ward during the day are doctors and orderlies, patients, and patients' visitors."

"OK," said Dean, "we can be doctors. I've done it before, nothing to it."

"No," Sam shook his head, "this isn't some two-bit rural clinic, Dean. If you go in there with fake ID and a made-up name, they're gonna check your credentials, and then they're gonna call the police and you'll have lost any chance you ever had of getting in there."

"OK, so, what?" Dean was getting kind of frustrated now. "You're telling me there's no way of getting round this? Because I gotta tell you, Sam, that's not exactly what I'm looking for in the way of plans right now."

"No," Sam said slowly, and his lips tightened, the line of his jaw tensing. "We can do it. We just need a patient."

Dean snorted. "Right. So we just roll on up there and pretend to be crazy, right?" And then he stopped and glanced sideways. Sam had stopped tapping. "Oh no," Dean said. "No way, Sam."

"Why not?" Sam asked, and laughed, goddamn, Dean was so sick of that laugh. "It's not like I'd have to do much acting."

"Yeah, well, too bad. I'm pretty sure I can be crazy as you if I put my mind to it."

"Maybe," Sam said, "but you don't know what the room looks like, you don't have any legit insurance or medical records, and your social security number belongs to a dead person. This is a private hospital, Dean, they don't just take people off the street. My scholarship covers the insurance, I've got the records, I've got the history. It's the only way to be sure we'll find out what we need."

"Maybe, maybe not," Dean said, "but there is no way we're doing this, you got me? I'm not arguing about this any more, Sam. We're finding another plan."

"For fuck's sake, why is it that you get to make all the decisions?" Sam growled. "Christ, Dean, who died and made you God?"

Dean clenched his jaw and concentrated on driving, feeling his grip on the steering wheel increase to the point where it actually hurt. Sam didn't get it, of course Sam didn't get it, Sam didn't know, and the goddamn nuthatch was getting closer and closer and Dean was running out of time, running out of time to make Sam understand. There was only one thing he could think of to do. And it was going to hurt like a freakin motherfucker.

"Sam," he said, "when you were a baby, when Mom died... I carried you out of the fire. I was only four, and Dad told me to take you, and ever since... Even before... It's been my job to make sure you're OK, you get me? Sometimes you screw up and I have get you out of the mess you've made, sometimes I screw up and I have to get you out of the mess I've made, but I always get you out, because that's what I do. And now... I've made this gigantic mess of your life, and you just want me to walk you into a freakin nuthouse and abandon you there? Because I can't do that, Sam, I won't."

Sam was silent, and Dean didn't look at him, keeping his eyes fixed on the road, his fingers clenched around the steering wheel, feeling like if he let go, if he looked at Sam, he was going to fall apart, and that would be just what they needed. Finally, he heard Sam give a frustrated sigh.

"Jesus Christ, you're an idiot," he said. "I have no idea how your Sam managed to put up with you for twenty-three years."

Dean let out a bark of laughter. OK, he hadn't expected that. "Great, Sam, why don't you tell me how you really feel?"

Sam was tapping again. "Listen, man, do you know what I was doing just before I met you?"

Dean thought back to that night in Palo Alto, back when he'd still thought that this whole mess would be fixable with a short, bitter argument and an apology or two. "Drinking and fighting," he said.

"That's right," Sam said. "I was totally wasted and taking a beating from this random guy I met in the bar. And you know what? I don't even blame him, because I started the goddamn fight. I hadn't been sober for weeks. Do you understand what I mean?" Dean shrugged, not really wanting to hear this, but not sure what to say to stop it. "I mean I hadn't had a single minute when my head was completely clear and there was no alcohol at all in my bloodstream for weeks, Dean. Weeks. And now, look at me. I haven't had a drink in three days."

Dean snorted. "It's gonna take a lot more than three days sober to fix this," he said.

"God, don't you think I know that? Jesus, you have no idea what it's like. Sometimes, I want to ditch you and go and find a bar more than I want to breathe." Sam's tapping had intensified now, and Dean started to think that maybe there was something behind it other than Sam being a pain in the ass.

"I gotta say, you're not exactly helping your case, here," he pointed out.

Sam made an exasperated noise. "You don't get it, do you? I could have. I could have got that drink any time, and you couldn't have stopped me, not really. But you didn't need to, because you gave me something else to help me stop."

"Oh yeah?" Dean challenged, staring so hard at the road ahead that he thought maybe it might just melt under the power of his gaze (except Sam was the one with the freakish powers, and they generally weren't nearly as cool as heat-vision, which, if Dean was honest about it, had always kind of disappointed him). "What's that?"

"You gave me a reason to stop," Sam said. "You gave me a reason, Dean."

"Right, I gave you a freakin revenge quest," Dean said, pressing down slightly harder on the gas.

"Maybe some of it's about revenge," Sam admitted, "but not all of it. God, I have no idea if I'm meant to save the world from this goddamn demon or whatever, but at least now I can try, at least now I can do something. Jesus, if you'd asked me two weeks ago if I would go back to hospital to save a life, even my own life, I'd've said no goddamn way. I was drowning, and now I'm not. So if you think that saving me is your job, Dean, then you can relax, because you already have."

Dean felt the back of his throat burning; Jesus, maybe Sam was right, maybe he really was turning into a girl. He wanted to believe it, wanted to believe that he'd done enough, that Sam would be able to do the rest now, but he wasn't sure he could. "But what about when I'm gone, huh?" he said, ignoring the roughness in his voice. "What are you gonna to do then?"

Sam turned to look at him then, and although Dean still had his eyes fixed on the road, he could feel Sam's stare like it was a physical object. "I'm going to get some help, Dean," he said quietly. "I'm going to get some help, and then I'm going to kick that son-of-a-bitch's ass."

----

In the end, it was a vision that finally convinced Dean that Sam's plan was the only option. Thankfully, Sam was already lying on the bed when it happened, but it was freakin long, and it looked pretty goddamn painful, and Sam came out of it with his chest heaving and his eyes wide, rolling over to throw up in the trash can before Dean even had a chance to put a hand on his back.

"God," he said, panting, head hanging over the side of the bed, hair stuck to the nape of his neck with sweat. "God, I don't think I can take much more of this."

Dean sat on the edge of the bed and felt useless, and he didn't ask, but Sam knew anyway, and said, "It's getting worse, Dean. You need to get him out of there. Fast."

Yeah, thought Dean, everything's always got to be fast.

In the morning, they made their preparations. Sam called Jim, and then went into town to talk to a lawyer and sign some papers. He was back by eleven, and he called Jim again; Dean sat in the room and listened to Sam's half of the conversation, and at some point he jumped to his feet and grabbed the phone from his brother's hand.

"Jim," he said.

"Dean." Jim's voice was crackly on the line. "What can I help you with?"

"Jim, I swear to God, if you let my brother down I will find out and I will find a way to come back here and kick your ass, priest or no priest."

There was a startled silence, and then Jim chuckled. "Well, I'll just have to be sure and not let him down, then, won't I?"

After that, there was an hour or so during which Dean taught Sam how to pick locks (which was pretty dumb, since Sam had pretty much always been better at it than Dean, his fingers long and nimble where Dean's where strong and forceful), and then they were ready to go. It was a short drive to the other side of town, and when they pulled up in front of the hospital, Dean couldn't suppress a shudder. The thing looked even more like a freakin haunted asylum in real life. Dean half expected bats to come flying out of the eaves any second (and actually, that wouldn't be such a bad thing, because they could always do with more bat's blood – OK, that was not a thought Dean had ever imagined himself having). "Jesus, welcome to the freakin Bates Motel," he muttered, and turned to Sam.

Sam was staring up at the building too, his spine stiff, his leg jerking. His mask of indifference had slipped entirely, and suddenly he looked like Sam, maybe more so than at any time since Dean had woken up in this reality, scared and nervous and about six years old.

"Hey," said Dean. "You don't have to do this, you know."

Sam turned to look at him, and in an instant the mask was back, though a muscle still twitched in his jaw. "It's OK," he said. "I... I want to."

Yeah, you're just desperate to get in there, aren't you? Dean thought, but all he said was, "OK, then, you ready?"

Sam swallowed and closed his eyes briefly. Then he opened them and met Dean's gaze calmly. "Yeah," he said. "Let's go."