A/N: The stuff I'm hearing from Comic Con is depressing me so here's another chapter! Let it be known that in my universe, the brother's will always be everything to each other.

Disclaimer: If this were mine, the show would consist of nothing but chick-flick moments and brotherly schmoop. But as it is, Supernatural has a plot. So clearly, it does not belong to me.

Warnings: Heavy angst.

AU after episode 7x04

So Dean had the worst hangover in the history of ever. Except for the fact that he didn't which was completely and totally unfair. Because if he had a hangover, then that would mean he would at least have a night of memories - drunk memories, but memories nonetheless - to get him through it. But, no. He hadn't had a busty blonde pouring shot after shot in front of him. He hadn't experienced the wonderful sensations of forgetfulness, of indifference, of numbness.

No, he hadn't gotten any of that. Instead, he'd gotten Hell-fire.

Though at that moment, Hell-fire had nothing on the way his brother's eyes were incinerating the side of his skull.

"I'm fine, Sam." It came out harsher than he had meant it to, sharper. But the ceiling he was staring up at, while blessedly neutral, was doing nothing whatsoever to keep the rising tide of vomit from... well... rising. Which was really pissing him off. So his brain was a bit preoccupied. Not that it was doing an exceptionally good job keeping his insides in place but still, he wasn't about to tell it that. If it revolted or went on strike, things would not end well for any party involved. And as he was deeply invested in his party, he was going to keep his opinions regarding his mind's job performance to himself.

His brother's sigh split his skull as if it were nothing, sliced straight through it. And if not for the fact that he knew Sam was just worried about him, Dean would have ejected said-brother from the room a long time ago. But then again, the amount of effort it would have taken to remove the Sasquatch-sized ass would have been almost impossible for Dean to muster up. And even if he did somehow manage to do so, his brain wouldn't have been able to handle the added task. And the second Dean's head ended up in the toilet, Sam would have come back into the room anyways, quickly destroying all of his hard-work.

"That doesn't work, y'know," Sam snapped, and Dean jumped, the sharpness in the voice a little surprising. Though he supposed it was good to know that he wasn't the only one that had life doing the cancan on his last nerve.

"What?" he demanded, and then squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing to make it harder for anything to come up that direction. If it had to fight against the current of saliva, then maybe it would be discouraged and just turn right back around again. Because there was no way he was getting sick. That would only make his headache worse. And besides, the bed he was lying on was too comfortable to get off of.

Sam rolled his eyes and answered, "That. It doesn't do anything." But it did. It did do something. It did a lot of somethings, the most important of which was that it made him feel better. Lying, denial, a faked belief that everything was okay made him think, if even for a second, that no one could see how not okay it really was. So yeah, Sam could leave him and his denial alone.

Though where Sam got off saying anything, he had no idea. Because his brother had been telling him he was fine right up until the moment he imploded. And then during the implosion. And then after the implosion. So Dean could damn well say his head was fine.

Despite the fact he was almost definitely going to throw up on the disgustingly flowered comforter.

"Kathleen know what the hell happened?" he asked, changing the subject. Even though he didn't really need to ask. Because he could feel it. Because it was the same thing that kept happening the entire year Sam was in Hell, the same thing that happened when he saw himself and Sam in the motel parking lot. And you could never mistake the feeling of drowning in another person's thoughts, could never mistake the feeling of your consciousness splitting in half as you became two people instead of just the one you were supposed to be. And a part of him wondered how he had even thought it to be a dream in the first place. Because while his brain apparently wasn't particularly good at its job of keeping him sane, the torture and pain he always felt was too vivid, too sharp for even him to manage.

Sam let out a breath, like he really wished Dean hadn't asked. Like telling him was going to be worse than the cage had been. "She said... uh..." He laughed but it sounded hollow and fake, forced. Though that was probably because it was. And Dean half-wished he just wouldn't bother, wished he would just let his front go, even if Dean refused to do the same. "You and I are... connected. Psychically."

And despite the rolling in his stomach, despite the fact that his brain knew it was a really bad idea, Dean's head snapped sideways to stare across the space between the two beds. To stare at a brother who very clearly did not want to be stared at. Because Sam wouldn't look up for more than an instant, eyes flickering to Dean's before falling away again, like he was afraid of what he would see there.

And Dean wasn't sure what exactly it was that he would see there. Because again, his brain wasn't doing so well in the job performance department. Controlling his face along with everything else would have lowered his ability to keep his guts in place and again, that was the main goal here. Besides, his mind was too consumed with "What the hell!?" for him to even worry about it.

"Basically... when Lucifer formed his bond... I left myself open to others," Sam continued. "They all formed right before I jumped into Hell and you were... well... there so... yeah..." And it was only after he had lurched out of bed, rolling over the side to hurl in the bucket strategically placed on the floor that Dean realized he had made Fatal Error #1 when trying to keep from vomiting: he had left his mouth hanging open. And that was equivalent to throwing the door open and saying come on out!

Fail. Bad. Stupid.

And while he vomited, he found himself distantly wondering how he was going to make his brain accept the fact that it had been fired for its incompetence.

When he finished, he found a glass of water had somehow made its way to his hand along with an entire bottle of pills. And if not for the fact that the thought of swallowing anything made him want to die, he would probably have taken the entire bottle.

Then again, taking the entire bottle would probably equate to dying so he supposed that didn't really make sense.

So he took the water and set the pills on the nightstand, busying himself with rinsing his mouth out. Repeatedly. As many times as he could manage.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam's voice said, brushing along the edge of Dean's incredibly annoyed mind. Because he wasn't supposed to throw up. He hated throwing up more than almost anything. Hence why he was so good at not throwing up. He had picked up every trick he could throughout his life, anything that would help keep the contents of his stomach exactly where they belonged and preferably not anywhere else. And it pissed him off that a moment of forgetfulness, of shock had forced him to puke in a bucket.

But that aside, Dean was able to pause in his spitting long enough to glance incredulously at his brother. Though said-brother didn't seem to notice. "I'm working on breaking them. I just have to... work harder I guess." Sam shrugged, lacing his fingers together, elbows resting on his knees. And it took Dean way longer than he was proud of to figure out that Sam was apologizing to him for subconsciously binding their minds together.

Though he supposed he could be excused for being slow on the uptake because honestly, who would even think about doing that? Who would apologize for doing something they had absolutely no control over?

Oh, right. Sam would. Because Sam's conscious was disproportionate and far exceeded the maximum size appropriate for the freakishly huge idiot Dean called his brother.

So Dean ignored the insults his head shouted at him as he pushed up from the edge of the bed, forcing himself to sit against the headboard. Because falling off and face planting in a bucket of stomach innards sounded like absolutely no fun whatsoever. "Here's the deal, Sam," he said, legs crossed at his ankles as he drank the remaining water. And Sam actually looked up at him, away from the floor he seemed so obsessed with. Which Dean supposed was a good thing. "Your brain? What it does? Not your fault. Hell, I can hardly get mine to listen to me. Ever. And yours is way more... big."

Silently proud of himself, Dean turned his gaze to the nightstand. The pill bottle was sitting there. Mocking him. And he really wanted his headache to go away...

"This was my fault," Sam stated, so clearly, so determinedly, as if there was no way that could possibly be untrue. And it was. It was so untrue that Dean didn't even know where to begin. "Lucifer was playing memories in my head. I got locked in there so you got pulled in after me." Dean's eyes fell to his hands, something lodging in his chest, making it painful to breathe. Because to Sam, the part of that statement that was the most important, the most horrible was the fact that Dean had been pulled in.

To Dean, it was everything but that.

Especially because it was accompanied by the realization that everything he had seen in his dreams, everything he had seen at Lisa's, everything he had heard in the parking lot, had actually happened to his brother. Everything had been real to Sam in a way Dean had never known. Which meant Dean had watched it all happen. Which meant Dean had seen Sam's Hell, had seen what Lucifer had done to his brother, had seen how bad it had really gotten, how bad it was.

...Had heard Sam scream for Dean to save him.

Driving the heels of his hands into his eyes, he breathed, "Sam..." And then he had no idea what else to say, where he was supposed to go with that. Because when he just started talking, stupid stuff tended to come out, stupid stuff that he'd regret later because apparently, he was emotionally stunted. And he couldn't afford to be. Not when he knew all of this, not when he felt like there was this huge gaping tear in his chest that couldn't heal until Sam smiled and actually meant it, until Sam had a reason to smile.

Growling, he slid down against the headboard, practically lying flat again. "It's not... Not everything is your fault," he finally said. Because it was simple and true and there was no way it could be taken to mean anything other than what it did. There was no way it could further damage their already broken relationship. And though he could tell Sam didn't fully believe him, he could also tell from the way the corner of his mouth twitched up, the way he tipped his head that he appreciated the comment.

And that would have been a win. Would have been, but that look melted away almost as quickly as it had appeared, an emptiness overtaking his brother's eyes.

That was not a win. That would be the definition of lose. "...Sam?"

"I won't do it, Dean," he said, resolve strong, confident. And he looked up from the floor to stare into Dean's eyes, meeting him head on for the first time in what seemed like forever. "You don't have to worry about it this time. No matter what he does, I'm not gonna pull him out." And Dean realized as cold flooded his veins that this conversation was traveling in the complete opposite of the right direction.

"Sam-"

"I'll let him pull me in before I let him out again." And the quiet anger, the amount of self-loathing in that statement actually knocked there air from Dean's lungs, something he had never thought physically possible for words to do. But they definitely had because there was no freaking air in the freaking room. Or in his chest. Which he was pretty sure was a bad thing.

Pulling in a deep, shuddering breath, he opened his mouth to say something. But before he could figure out what, he realized that Sam was gone. Where he had gone, Dean had no idea. When he had left, Dean, again, had no idea, because for the life of him, he couldn't remember Sam getting up and leaving, couldn't picture the moment in his mind that that had happened.

He guessed it must have at some point though. Because once again, he was sitting alone. And once again, he felt like he was farther from the finish line than he was when he started.

Swallowing, he wondered if that was okay, if he could work with that. Because tracks could be circular. So even if you went the back way around, in the complete opposite direction of everybody else, as long as you followed the path, as long as you had your destination in mind, you'd circle back to the finish line eventually. You would make it there, maybe not in the conventional way, but you'd make it. And besides, when had the Winchesters ever done anything the conventional way?

So Dean closed his eyes, pressing his back into the headboard behind him. He'd make it to the finish line. At some point. As long as he wanted it, as long as he knew where he was trying to go, he'd make it there.

...Right?

Ignoring the way Sam flinched at the sound of his voice was more difficult than he had expected. When he had to force himself to ignore the way wide, terrified eyes stared up at him from the couch in the living room, the world seemed to dull around him. Because ignoring wasn't something he was good at. He couldn't simply forget to notice when his brother was hurt or afraid or worried or sad or angry or anything. He couldn't do it. He simply couldn't.

It had been hours since they had last seen each other, darkness now seeping in through the windows. And Dean had walked into the living room to find Sam rubbing at his skull, driving the heels of his hands into his head. Which didn't look like it could be at all comfortable nor did it seem to be helping anything. And all Dean said was, "Y'okay, Sam?" That was it. Those words exactly. And Sam had jumped like he had been electrocuted.

"Dean?" Sam said, turning it into a question, like he wasn't sure, like he didn't know, like he needed confirmation. And though Dean wasn't exactly sure why, it still scared him more than he felt it should have. He didn't want to think about what it meant, for Sam, for Hell, for them. Didn't want to think about all the possible reasons Sam could be asking. And that was largely because he had no idea how to confirm something like that. How was he supposed to prove that he was Dean when Lucifer could be making Sam see anything? How was he supposed to prove that when it was possible that Lucifer's Dean was better at being Dean than Dean was?

So he forced a smile, moving to sit in the armchair across from Sam. He relaxed back into it, posture the complete opposite of how Sam was tensed, the complete opposite of how Sam stayed leaning over his knees, every muscle locked in case he was forced to run. "Well, yeah," Dean answered. "The one and only. Who else'd I be?" Even though he knew who else Sam thought he could be. The look faded though, replaced by the one always in Sam's eyes, a little sad, a little rebellious, a lot broken.

That wasn't an improvement. Broken wasn't a step ahead of terrified. At least Dean didn't think so. No. They were just different words for the destroyed that Sam was. They were just two different pieces of what was left of him. And Dean really would give anything for some glue and tape, would give anything for something that could hold his brother together. For something that could fix his brother, for something that would really make him whole again.

Sam just shook his head though, clearing his throat as he rubbed his temple. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." And Dean noticed the way he very carefully didn't answer his most recent question, the way he pointedly answered the first question. Not that Dean really needed an answer, not that Dean didn't know what the answer was because that had become very, very clear.

But Dean just decided to ignore it, to let Sam think he had gotten away with it. Build up a false sense of security - the best way to get Sam to talk. Always. And Dean supposed that was where his plan kind of fizzled out and died because he had no idea how he was supposed to build up a sense of security at all under these circumstances, much less a fake one. "What's up?"

"Oh, nothin'." Dean laced his fingers in front of him, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table as he stared into the empty fireplace. "Just bored. There's nothin' to do in this house. Lady doesn't even have cable." Which was criminal. She didn't own a TV. No TV. At all. Honestly, what did she expect him to do with himself? Hell, what did she do with herself? Chat with the dead all day? Have tea-party-apparitions with little invisible tea cups and cookies? Sit in the dark and talk to herself?

...Probably all of the above.

He heard Sam's quiet snicker, loud and clear over the sound of Kathleen's footsteps headed towards the room. It was comforting, no matter how small it was. It was something and anymore, that was all he could hope for.

Kathleen appeared a moment later, wiping her hands on her pants as she moved to the fireplace, grabbing a log from the stand next to it. "It's chilly. Chilly. Yes. Need a fire..." And Dean had to agree, it was cold to the point he half-wondered if the air conditioner was on. If it wasn't, the house was insanely drafty. Which was possible he supposed because he didn't think even Kathleen would turn on the air conditioner and then go light a fire because... well... because that would be stupid. And again, not even Kathleen was that crazy.

At least, he didn't think so.

"Thanks, Kathleen," he said, smiling as the flames flickered to life, a warmth beginning to fill the room. But when he glanced over at Sam, all of said-warmth was sucked from the room. Any comfort, calmness he had felt evaporated in an instant and Dean leaned forward, hands pressing down on the armrests as he prepared to stand up. "Sam?" But Sam was already up, backing from the room, away from the fire. His shoulder slammed into the doorjamb and he barely even reacted, just shifted sideways slightly in order to keep it from happening again.

"I have to- um..." His gaze darted over to Dean and a strange look crossed his face, body straightening. But he was already outside the room. He had already half-run away. So Dean wasn't really sure who he was trying to fool anymore. "I'll be back." And as he disappeared, headed towards their bedroom, Dean knew that he wasn't going to be back anytime soon.

Breath leaving him, he dropped his face into his hands, staring at the floor as he addressed Kathleen. "He's getting worse." He hadn't meant for the accusation to fill his voice but it was there and he couldn't seem to control that. Her fixing Sam was why they were there. If she couldn't, then he would go find someone who could. Anyone who could. But she needed to stop wasting their time, especially when it looked like they had a time limit, a cut-off date approaching. "He's getting worse," he repeated, gaze lifting to the opposite wall. "And you're supposed to be making him better." Progress. Dean wanted progress. Not bloody noses or "I'll keep trying"'s from Sam. He wanted something to get better. Sooner rather than later.

When he finally looked at her, he found her staring into the fire, completely ignoring the venom in his voice. "Give it time," she sighed, throwing a piece of newspaper into the flames, watching it burn. "Everything grows at its own pace. Everything falls apart similarly." And Dean opened his mouth to snap something back, opened his mouth to say something. But then he realized that he didn't know what to say because he honestly had no idea what she even meant. Hands curling into fists as his jaw firmed, he stood, leaving and heading towards the bedroom. Because someone needed to help Sam. And even though he wasn't a professional in the psychic-department, he used to be a professional in the Sam-department. So if she wasn't going to help him, then Dean would.

And he'd hope to god that he wouldn't make it worse.

"Hey, Sam-" His words and his steps stopped short though when he entered the room, watching as his brother jumped, scrambling off the bed, pressing himself into the opposite wall. "Sammy?" But Sam just blinked, shaking his head, scrubbing his hand down his face.

"Dean." This time, it was a fact, a statement, almost a demand. Like it wasn't obvious, like he needed to tell someone that it was true in order to make himself believe it.

"Yeah..." Dean stepped into the room, closing the door behind him as he moved to sit on the edge of his bed. There was a tense silence as he let Sam regain his composure or whatever, as he let Sam come back from wherever he had gone, before he started, "You-"

"Yeah," Sam interrupted, laughing quietly to himself. And Dean half-felt like laughing himself. Not a real laugh, more a borderline-hysterical-laugh. Because Sam knew just what he was going to ask, had given the same answer he always gave, lied just as he always did. Just as Dean always did. And honestly, there was no point to even asking anymore. No point other than the strange hope that maybe, someday, Sam would give him the true answer. No point other than the strange hope that they would someday break the cycle they were stuck in. And Dean had to wonder why the answer to that question had suddenly become so important to him, when it had become so important.

Sam just flopped onto his bed, lying against the headboard. An attempt at normal. A facsimile of normal. "'m fine, just... Yeah. I'm good."

Dean stared at his profile for a moment, analyzing and memorizing the strain lines that had appeared since the last time Dean had seen him. Which was not five hours before. And there were a lot of them. Nodding, he sunk back onto his own bed, staring up at the cracked, ridged ceiling. "Well, that's the most shit I've ever heard in one sentence. Congratulations, Sam. You just broke a record."

"Dean-" And Dean heard the warning, the eye roll, the "Oh my god, would you just shut up." But Dean had spent most of his life developing immunity to that tone and there was no way he was giving in to it now.

"No. I mean it, Sam. This has to stop. Cut the damn thing!" he said, tucking his hands behind his head. "You're a hunter- No, you're a Winchester. You're not gonna let this thing get you." He turned to look at his brother, as if his staring at him would force the determination that Dean had into Sam's mind. As if letting Sam know the wasn't giving up on this, that he was holding on, would make Sam do the same.

There was a pause, one that never would have been there at the beginning of all of this, wasn't even there when he picked Sam up from Stanford after years of not seeing him. It was tense and heavy, the weight of a thousand words hanging between them. A thousand words that needed to be but couldn't be said.

Finally, Sam sighed, "It's Hell, Dean. It's the cage." And Dean watched as he shrugged, eyes not moving from the ceiling as he said in a voice so quiet Dean wasn't even sure he was supposed to hear it, "It already has me."

A/N 2: Thanks everyone for bearing with me. I promise the action will pick up here soon.