Sam held the pile of folded laundry pinned between his forearm and his chin while he turned the room key and pushed the door open.

"Sorry I've been so long; I ran out of change for the drier," he said, sliding the pile down onto the table then dividing it between his own clothes and Dean's and something was wrong.

He couldn't have said what it was that alerted him, but something in the room was off and when he looked at Dean he felt the hammer-fall of his heart against his rib cage and the sickish chill of having his earlier misgivings confirmed. Dean was sitting with Sam's journal perched on his knees and, even at this distance and upside down, Sam could see which page Dean was reading. Except, he didn't appear to be reading it – at least, not any more – his vision was focused at a point somewhere in front of him, and Sam noticed with unease the mechanical manner in which Dean's finger kept stroking the neglected page.

Cat-like, Sam felt every nerve and muscle in his body readying for a confrontation. He felt there was a palpable tension in the room, like the dry crackle of static you can feel in the atmosphere after a long spell without rain; on the heaviest, most oppressive day when you can smell the storm coming and feel the deluge straining for release; in the moment before the thunder speaks . . .

"It was a demon, wasn't it?" Dean said quietly.

Sam didn't mistake that quiet for calm. It was hard to characterize Dean's expression as he lifted his almost demon-dark eyes to hold Sam's. It appeared impassive, but it was anything but calm.

Sam didn't know what to say. He waited for inspiration, the guidance he'd prayed for, but there was nothing. He had no idea how he could make this any better.

Dean stood up slowly, and slowly placed the journal on the table. Everything he did was slow, and Sam found himself almost unconsciously edging backwards until the top of the kitchenette jabbed into his hip.

"So, it wasn't an accident that you came to stay with us, was it Sam? You were there for a purpose. You were hunting." Dean placed his finger on the journal. "You were hunting this."

Sam hesitated only briefly then swallowed and nodded. "Yes." Essentially. "That's right. Yes."

Still Dean held Sam with his impassive stare, and his finger began stroking the page again. "So, you knew about it," he reiterated. "You knew it was coming for us." He took a step closer to Sam. "You knew . . . and you never told us, never warned any of us . . . you never said anything."

Dean's anger was something to behold. It was dangerous because it was pure, primal, utterly without thought for consequences or self-preservation. It couldn't be reasoned with or safely restrained. All you could do, if you were smart, was get the fuck out of its way. But Sam wasn't planning to be smart. Sam had determined to take whatever was coming because Dean had a right to it: to his pain and his rage . . . and his retribution, whatever that turned out to be - more than that, he needed it – but, Dear God, Sam would never have imagined he could feel as afraid of Dean as he did at this moment.

His gaze slid away from Dean's and he replied hoarsely, "I'm sorry."

But Dean's intense eyes found him again and held him from under the arch of his eyebrows.

"You're sorry?"

Sam swallowed on a mouth run dry. "I thought . . . I didn't think – if I tried to explain – that you'd believe me – that any of you would . . . I thought that at least if I could stay on the spot . . . I thought I could protect you all," he finished lamely. There was a silence in which Sam reached backwards for the edge of the kitchenette, to steady himself, and he could hear the sound of a clock ticking. But when Dean spoke it was still with that unnaturally quiet voice, and Sam wished he would just snap and get it over with.

"Well, you did a piss poor job of it," Dean said.

Sam's forehead tightened into a tiny frown and his jaw tightened with a slight sideways twist. You're still alive, Dean, a small voice wanted to protest, but he said nothing. He only had John to thank for that.

Dean finally turned his head, releasing Sam briefly from his accusing stare, as he transferred his attention back to the journal, finger resting on the page once more.

"It says here that demons act by possessing people; they act through host bodies it says . . ."

Sam's eyes widened. The hammer of his heart sped up like a piston and he drew in a sharp hard breath through his nose. Oh, no. Don't go there. Not yet. It's too soon. You're not ready . . .

"So, who was the host that night, Sam?"

Sam was staring like a deer caught in the headlights, and Dean was flooring the gas pedal.

"Who did the demon possess?" he demanded. When Sam still didn't respond he added. "Where were you when Mom died, Sam?"

The question Dean was asking was so far from Sam's thoughts that Dean had to repeat it, and it was only when Sam registered the trace of a hysterical edge in Dean's voice that he realized it wasn't rhetorical.

"Sam! Where were you?"

Sam's hesitation now was simply confusion. "Y – you know where I was, Dean . . . I was with you. We were talking . . . w . . . ?"

"Before that. When she went to bed. You were upstairs. What were you doing up there?"

Sam's mouth dropped open. This possibility – this interpretation of the facts simply hadn't occurred to him.

"I . . . went to the bathroom . . ." he began, but immediately recognized that the habitual lies were no longer serving him and hurriedly added "and then I checked your mother's room, and yours. Everything seemed fine, then. I passed Amanda in the hall . . . and she was fine. That was the last time I saw her."

Dean was studying him through arched eyebrows again. "And I know that because . . . ?"

Sam realized with horror that he had nothing, nothing beyond asking Dean to trust in his sincerity, and it wasn't as if he'd been unfailingly forthright up to that moment.

"Dean, it wasn't me!" he gasped. "Why would you even think that?"

When Dean replied his lips and voice were shaking. The levee was beginning to break. "One day I had a perfectly normal life and the next it was a river of crap and, in between, you happened. The whole world goes fucking insane and you just happen to be there, the one person who knows something about it. What am I supposed to believe?" His eyes began to swim with helpless tears. "Come on, Sam! Throw me a bone, here! Give me a reason to believe you!"

Apparently it was an infection. Sam could feel the sting in his own eyes. "Dean," His voice was low and trembling. "It wasn't me."

"There were only three people in the house that night, Sam: you, me and Mom."

Sam opened his mouth then stopped as he suddenly wondered: would it be kinder to let Dean think it was him?

"Sam?"

But he was going to want to know – need to know – what had happened to his father. Sooner or later he was going to have to hear the truth.

Sam's fingers tightened around the rim of the kitchenette. "There was someone else."

The silence stretched out. It took so long for Dean to ask the question that Sam began to wonder whether he was afraid to hear the answer, but then he moved closer and his voice hardened.

"Who?" he demanded.

Sam's breath was coming short and shallow.

"Tell me the truth, Sam!"

His adrenalin drenched muscles were twitching, urging him to move, but Sam stood his ground. Whatever happens . . . Whatever he does . . .

"Your father."

All the air left Dean's body. He looked down and to the side and forced another airless breath out of his mouth in a ghastly parody of a laugh, and his teeth were bared in a vicious, mirthless grin. Every nuance of his body was telegraphing his intent and Sam gripped the edge of the kitchenette, forcing himself to stillness.

And yet, when the punch came, Sam was still unprepared for the force of it. Who knew Dean's fist could pack that much power? It exploded in Sam's face and knocked him off of his feet. He would have fallen if Dean hadn't immediately followed the blow, grabbing Sam's shirt and slamming him against the wall.

"You're telling me my father killed my mother!" Dean snarled. "Is that what you're saying, Sam?"

Sam stood frozen against the wall. It wasn't even about letting Dean vent any more, it was about not doing anything that might provoke him further, anything that might cause the situation to snowball into something that could only end bloody.

"Dean, no!" he gasped. "It wasn't your father. It was the demon! Your father was possessed!" He could see Dean's body quaking, feel Dean's hands shaking against his chest. "You've experienced that, you know how it feels, you know it's out of your control!"

Sam watched the blood drain from Dean's face until his skin was tinged green and his lips were ashen. "But I knew what was happening, Sam," he barely whispered. "I knew what I was doing, I just couldn't stop . . ." Then his breath was coming in sharp gasps. "W-would Dad have known? Would he have been able to see . . . feel what he was . . . Sam?"

Dean's eyes were pleading and Sam didn't know what to say. "I don't know," he barely whispered. He cleared his throat. "Victims have reported periods of consciousness but at other times – "

Dean's grasp tightened around Sam's collar. He shook him and banged him against the wall. It was just a gesture, there was no strength left in him, but as Sam stared into Dean's eyes he knew he couldn't lie to him. He swallowed on a throat that was so tight it hurt. "I think he was conscious, Dean." His eyes hurt. His chest hurt. "I'm sorry."

Dean drew his hands back behind his head and Sam tensed in expectation of another blow, but it didn't come. Instead Dean snatched the car keys off the table, reached the door in two strides and was through it, slamming it behind him, almost before Sam had time to react.

"Dean, what – where are you – Dean, stop! Don't!" he cried, following him through the door.

Outside Dean was leaning unsteadily against the side of the Impala, then his body heaved and he doubled over and threw up over the tarmac, retching violently and repeatedly. Sam stood irresolute at first but, as he watched, Dean weakened and his legs began to buckle; he was in danger of falling into his own vomit. Sam made a move toward him, hesitated for a moment, but then stepped forward and slipped a hand under Dean's shoulder to help him support himself, and held his hair back out of his eyes with the other.

It continued painfully for long minutes as Dean emptied the contents of his stomach, then spewed bile, and still continued locked in the grip of dry heaves, coughing, gasping and hiccupping, and all Sam could do was to wait helplessly for the spasms to run their course, feeling Dean's body shudder and listening to his suffering as the smell of hot vomit rose from the cold tarmac.

A couple passed by on their way out from their own room and stared at Dean with expressions caught between disgust and concern. The woman might have been about to speak but Sam's warning glare hastened them both on their way without comment, and Dean began to cough his gag reflex under some kind of control. Then he slowly straightened up and weakly pushed Sam away.

"Get away from me," he gasped, shakily pushing the car keys into the lock.

"Dean, no!"

"I'm not kidding, Sam. Back off!" he growled.

He already had the driver side door open but Sam slammed it shut before he could get in and, pinning Dean between his own body and the side of the Impala, he grabbed his arm and held his wrist against the roof of the car. Dean struggled beneath him but his hold was secure and Dean's strength was at its lowest ebb. He spoke in Dean's ear, keeping his voice as low and calm as he could possible make it. "Dean, let go of the keys. Please. I don't want to hurt you, but I can't let you drive in this state. Dean, please."

Dean's struggles persisted a beat longer, then ceased, and he lay beneath Sam limp and inert. He swallowed and closed his eyes and his grip on the car keys relaxed. A part of Sam was tempted to stay close to Dean like that, to hold him and comfort him. The ease with which Dean had given up the struggle almost persuaded him that it was what Dean wanted, too. Nevertheless, as soon as he'd drawn the keys from Dean's loose fingers he stepped back. A moment later Dean opened his eyes and pushed himself upright, then he opened the car door.

"Go back inside, Sam," he insisted in a hoarse whisper then, when Sam hesitated, he repeated the command more loudly but in a voice that crumbled from trembling lips. By the time he stumbled into the car his shoulders were shaking and tears were already raining down his face.

Sam stood frozen with indecision.

"Get inside, Sam!" Dean yelled once more before slamming the door, closing himself inside the Impala and slumping over the wheel.

Sam obeyed finally but, once inside the motel room, he kept watch on the Impala discreetly from behind the curtain, his anxieties only slightly mollified by the hard outline of the car keys inside his fist, and the knowledge that Dean wasn't going anywhere.

Inside the Impala Dean still felt exposed and vulnerable, and he was convinced Sam was still watching him, even from inside the motel room. Scrambling over the back of the seat he crawled into the back of the car and grabbed a blanket and cushion from behind the back seat. Stretched out across the upholstery, beneath the blanket and with his face buried in the cushion, he finally let it go, venting his grief in sobs that racked his whole body and ended in howls of anguish as he beat at the leather with his fists and kicked out at the floor and the metalwork that housed the front seat, raging against the thoughts he couldn't endure, and couldn't escape.

It was only exhaustion, not relief that ended it. When his tears had dried into salty tracks on his face though his shoulders still heaved with mute sobs then he finally pushed himself back upright and tried to draw breath with a semblance of self control. Pulling out a handkerchief he wiped at the residue of tears and snot. He gazed sightless at the sodden piece of linen for some time before his swollen eyes began to focus on a small red blur in a corner that eventually sharpened and revealed itself as a line of red stitching in the shape of an 'S'. It was the handkerchief that Sam had given him and he'd been carrying around with him ever since he'd let Alyson Holder have his. He stared dumbly at it for a few moments before his head dropped back and he let out a groan that was part confusion, part self-reproach.

"Oh, what am I doing?" he gasped.

He felt helpless and bewildered. His head ached and throbbed from too much . . . too much everything, and that was without trying to make sense of the conundrum that was Sam Campbell and all the conflicting thoughts Dean had had about him since he'd first started reading that damned journal. Looked at one way, it seemed that Dean had every reason to mistrust Sam: he knew next to nothing about him except that he was controlling, manipulative and evasive and he'd swept into Dean's life with nine kinds of crazy at his heels and there was no way of knowing for sure which had followed who. On the other hand, it felt like there was no excuse for doubting him when the kid had done nothing but look out for Dean from the get go, and all Dean was doing was hurting someone who actually seemed to care about his welfare . . . though why he should remained a mystery.

They'd ganked angry spirits together for fuck's sake!

Dean found he still had some tears left after all, but he growled them back down inside him. He needed to think clearly. Trouble was, so often thinking only got him piles of facts with no way of choosing between them other than to go with his gut. In the end, it came down to a choice: did he trust Sam or not?

Dad had said that our choices were the only thing in life we had any control over, and Dean had the feeling this might be one of the most important he'd ever make. He found himself staring down at the brass amulet that lay against his chest. Lifting it up, he pulled the cord from around his neck and held it in his hand, studying the carving and wondering again what it was and what it meant.

In the end it came down to small things, stupid even: it was about that little upturned frown Sam got on his face, or the way he would blush sometimes, or that tight little bitch-faced purse he got to his lips when Dean wound him up; it was about the way he would try to be oh-so-serious, but then he'd crack and the dimples would show. Maybe it wasn't logical, but these were the things Dean couldn't get past. Damn it all, he liked Sam.

Honestly, Dean didn't know for sure whether it was an act of faith or an act of desperation. All he knew was that everything he'd ever thought he could depend on had been swept from under his feet, and if he didn't find something to believe in he was going to go right out of his mind. He gazed at the amulet, weighing it in his hand a moment longer, then he slipped it back over his head and let it drop into place. For better or worse, he chose to believe in those dimples.

Dean felt hot and feverish. He needed a drink. And he needed a little talk with Sam. He still had a lot of questions and, damn it, Sam was going to give him some answers.