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Okay guys, last chapter here :( I'll be writing an epilogue sometime in the next week, so it's not quite finished yet, but this is the last full chapter… I just want to say THANK YOU to everyone who has reviewed this story, I've really enjoyed reading all your comments :) I know I've been terrible at replying but I'll definitely answer every signed review for this chapter and the epilogue (which isn't a shameless bribe for reviews, honestly :) ) I have to say, I've really enjoyed writing this story, insane!Sammy's mind is the Most Fun Thing Ever, and I hope you all enjoyed reading :)

Chapter 9

Two hours into whatever ritual Missouri was trying, and Dean was bored. It was quite possibly the longest he'd ever sat in one place, not counting sleeping, or the few treasured times when flirty waitresses just wouldn't stop bringing him food.

It had started well, or so Dean thought. Not that he had the slightest idea what Missouri was actually attempting to do. But Sam had seemed focused, sitting opposite Missouri, his legs crossed Indian-style. He'd been staring evenly into her eyes as she stared into his and their breaths had been in synch and their backs straight, parallels of each other. But after half an hour Missouri started to sag, and half an hour after that Sam had discovered the innate beauty in the coffee stain hidden under the corner of the rug he was sitting on. And that, apparently, had been that. Missouri had actually slapped his brother's hands away with a tsking sound the fourth time his fingers had wandered to play in the carpet.

Finally she let out a heavy sigh.

"Well, we might as well get up and start washing those dinner dishes. Lord knows this floor isn't doing my back any good."

John stood to help her up. "It didn't work I take it?"

Missouri shook her head, an exasperated look on her face. Sam, now free to examine the carpet stains to his heart's content, decided that the floor wasn't that interesting anymore and turned his attention back to Missouri. His face was guileless and he cocked his head as if to say was that it

"I'm not giving up that easily, boy." Missouri seemed to be speaking to Sam, her eyes narrowed like he'd deeply insulted her in some way.

"So what do we do now?" Dean asked, going to his brother's side.

Missouri looked at him, her face set and determined. "We try something else."

'Something else' turned out to be a thick white candle. Dean felt justified in the gleeful smirk that spread across his face at the sight of it, but Missouri's sharp look kept his mouth shut.

"It's a tool for meditation" was all she said on the subject as she put it down in the centre of the kitchen table.

Dean frowned. "Uh, Sam's supposed to meditate? No offence Missouri, but the kid can barely concentrate long enough to eat breakfast."

"That's the point." Missouri said, guiding Sam around by the arm until he was positioned on a chair by the side of the table. "It's supposed to give him something to concentrate on while I try and get inside his head, find out how everything is supposed to go back together."

When Sam was settled on one side of the table, Missouri sat down opposite him, lighting the candle in between them. Sam was instantly transfixed and Dean had a second of hope that this might actually work, until Sam's hand shot out to touch the flickering flame. Both Dean and John leapt forward, jarring the table and blowing the flame out. The candle rolled onto Missouri's lap, dripping hot wax onto the hem of her long patterned skirt. Sam blinked up at them with an empty look.

"Uh, maybe we should try something else?" John said carefully.

Dean stepped out into the cold night air, feeling the breeze brush his cheeks like a kiss. John stood a few feet away, surveying the dark shadows of Missouri's backyard. He glanced back as Dean moved to join him.

"They still busy in there?" John asked, his voice gruff.

"Yeah. Missouri's painting some kind of symbols on Sam's head, said it's supposed to open his mind or some shit. Taoism or Buddhism, something."

His dad let out a long sigh, his breath pluming grey in front of him. He didn't speak for a few minutes, and Dean wondered when everything had gotten so awkward between them. It never used to be like this, back when it was just the two of them on the road for days at a time. Easy silences that went on for hours, neither of them feeling like they had to share anything other than breaths. Now, Dean was itching for something to say. Some way to make it all better.

"I don't know that this is going to work, Dean." John said softly, his words chilling Dean more effectively than the night breeze ever could.

"What do you mean?" He asked carefully.

"I mean, Sam. And you. You know what we're up against, out there. Sam can't be dragged on hunts, left in motel rooms by himself. It's not practical, and it's not fair. I saw him today, when I carried you in. He wouldn't leave your side, Dean, not even to eat. Missouri said he was going crazy without you here, pacing like a wild animal."

"But…but Missouri's going to fix him. He's going to get better, dad. It's gonna be fine." Dean could hear the desperation in his own words, worn thin through endless repetition. His hands were clenching and unclenching uselessly by his sides.

John turned to look at him, and his eyes looked old and grey. "Son, Missouri's doing her best. And maybe we'll get lucky, but maybe we won't. Maybe this is it, how Sammy's gonna be from now on."

Dean shook his head violently, ignoring the tears that prickled his eyes. "He's gonna be okay."

"Dean."

"He will be!"

John held up his hands. "Dean, look…"

"No, dad! Don't you tell me he's not okay, even if he is like this forever! Don't you tell me we have to leave him behind again because I'm not leaving him!"

"Dean, that wasn't what I was gonna say." John took a long breath, his eyes falling to the floor like he was ashamed of something. One hand came up to scratch at the back of his neck. "I was gonna say that I think you should go to Pastor Jim's. The both of you. It's quiet there, out of the way. No one will come looking for you. You can keep me updated about the whole…vision, thing, and if I need help on a hunt I'll call you."

Dean blinked, his mouth opening on words that never formed.

"I know I've not been the best father to you boys. Not back then, and not now. But I always loved you, the both of you. I've tried to give you everything you need. And it's pretty obvious that what Sam needs right now is his brother."

John turned back to the dark garden, his eyes fixed on the treetops silhouetted against the inky sky. He exhaled shakily, like it had cost him something dear to say those things out loud. Maybe it had. The thought occurred to Dean as he watched the profile of his dad's face that maybe John couldn't do everything. For all that Dean looked up to his father, the residual hero-worship still slipping over from when he was much younger, he was still only a man, and a lonely one at that. He'd lost a wife, his youngest son had abandoned the cause for wild dreams of normal and future happiness, and now he had to let both his children go.

Dean looked at him for a long moment, his heart aching with something indefinable and bittersweet.

"That's it. I give up. I'm exhausted." Missouri said heavily, slumping into the big armchair in the living room.

"There's nothing else you can do?" Dean asked, trying to ignore the aching dip of his heart. "There has to be something. You can't just quit, you're supposed to be helping him!"

"Dean." His dad shot him a look.

"But…"

"Take Sam upstairs and put him to bed." Dean opened his mouth to protest, to beg, anything to get Missouri to try again. Before he could speak John nodded at him wearily. "That's an order, son."

Dean nodded, his head feeling ten times its normal weight. Sam stood without being told, waiting for him to leave the room first and trailing in his footsteps. It reminded him of when they were kids, of nameless motels and Sammy tagging along, telling Dean to wait up, I can't run that fast! At nine years old Dean thought he could take on the world and win, and Sam believed it too because nothing had happened yet to shatter those childish certainties. Big brother was the coolest, the best, the most incredible person in the world and Sam hadn't wanted to be left out of anything in case Dean did something amazing and he missed it. At the time it had pissed Dean off no end to be stuck with a little brother who dogged his every step and demanded to be included in everything he did. But now he wanted more than anything to hear that high pitched voice behind him.

He sighed, closing his eyes for a second. Sammy the child was gone, consigned to wistful memory. Instead, this broken almost-brother version of Sam followed him up the stairs, strange eyes never leaving him.

"I don't know what to tell you, John. I just…couldn't. It's like he's holding something back, something I couldn't see." Missouri looked up, her eyes red-rimmed as if she'd been rubbing them.

John let his weight drop heavily onto the sofa behind him, his head falling into his hands. "And there's nothing more you can do?"

"I'm afraid not. I'm so sorry, John. Sam had the ability to fix himself, but there's something else, something keeping him back." Missouri reached out a hand, clasping John's shoulder tightly. "I think what that boy needs more than anything is his family."

John looked over at her, a hand still screwed up in his hair. There was more grey colouring it every time he looked in the mirror. "I told Dean to take him to Jim Murphy's place for now. I can't ask him to leave his brother again, not when Sam needs him."

Missouri smiled softly. "Sam needs the both of you. Maybe he needs Dean in a different way, but you haven't lost your baby, John. He's still there, and he still loves you."

John looked at the carpet, the stain Sam had been playing with earlier still visible by the corner of the rug. He smiled wearily, nodding to himself. "I just…I've always tried to do right by them, like Mary would have wanted. Dean was easy. He wanted to hunt and he wanted his brother. I could do that for him. But Sam… After he turned fourteen, I just didn't know what to do with him anymore. Every time I tried talking to him, we ended up yelling at each other." He looked over at Missouri, guilt dark and heavy in his eyes. "Sometimes I thought it was for the best that he left. He was safe and happy, he finally had what he wanted. He didn't need me and my vengeance ruling his life."

Missouri clucked her tongue. "John Winchester, if you think for a second that that boy didn't love you, just because you had a few fights, then you're dumber than a plank of wood. Your trouble is, you can't stand it when someone else questions you. And Sam, he couldn't stand not having his questions answered. His leaving had nothin' to do with how he felt about his daddy and everything to do with how he felt about himself." She huffed, straightening her skirt primly. "Even an idiot could tell you that."

Dean spent half an hour in the shower, just standing under the scalding water and watching it run down the drain. He didn't realise just how much he'd been counting on Missouri's assistance until she said there was nothing she could do.

He shut off the water with a clenched fist. God, what was wrong with Sam? If Missouri was right and his…condition was self-inflicted in some way, why didn't he fix it himself? Roughly drying himself with a towel, he considered his dad's words earlier. He wouldn't have to leave Sam behind. But was he really doing any good in staying? What if his presence was stopping Sam from doing whatever it was he needed to in order to put himself back together again?

The mirror above the sink was fogged with steam and Dean smeared a hand across it. The picture it revealed made him start. His eyes were sunken and rimmed with blue-black circles. Cheekbones stood out prominently and his skin was sallow and pulled too tight. He looked like Sam had on that hospital bed, like he hadn't had a meal or a good night's sleep in weeks.

A scratching sound at the door drew his attention. Sam. Wanting his big brother. Dean closed his eyes and took a breath. On the one hand, Sam needing him like he needed Sam was the only thing Dean had ever wanted. But he hadn't wanted it like this. Like Sam couldn't even survive two minutes alone without him in sight. And no matter how he tried to avoid the subject, the sexual turn of their relationship had only ever been Dean's fantasy, never Sam's. He clenched his jaw tightly, holding in the whimper that wanted to escape. He'd been frantically pushing away the thoughts, the secret fears, but here alone in Missouri's bathroom they crept back to him, sinuously twisting themselves into the cracks of his mind. What if this was all his fault? He'd had sex with his brother, and Sam had never been in his right mind to give consent. What if the horror of knowing what Dean had done to him was keeping everything from falling back into place? Or making it even worse?

Scratching, more insistent at the door. Dean could imagine Sam on the other side, his hands splayed on the wood, pressing his body as close as possible in the half-thought out hope that he'd pass through the barrier somehow. Then he'd put his arms around Dean, rest his broken head on his big brother's shoulder in blind trust.

Dean opened the door, pushing past Sam without stopping and striding into the guest bedroom. The soft pink and beige of the room, the frills at the edges of the curtains, the pattern of flowers sewn onto the bedspread, it all reminded him distantly of his home, before the demon came and ruined it all.

Sam's hand fell on his arm. His fingers curled around the damp skin, clinging like Dean was a human security blanket. Dean shrugged off the touch, pulling out clothes from his duffle with more violence than was necessary.

Half of him was waiting for Sam to spin him around, kiss him, touch him like he wanted it. When he was fully dressed and still waiting, Dean turned to look at his brother. Sam was standing a few feet away, his face set in an almost-frown.

"What, Sam? What do you want? I can't give you anything!" Dean snapped out, his voice breaking. He spread his arms wide. "I can't help you!"

Sam took a big step forward, suddenly right up in Dean's space. Dean stumbled backward, his heart pounding. The backs of his legs hit the bed behind him and he fell, landing with a soft whumpf on the mattress. His body seemed to go limp at the contact, sliding to the floor beside the bed without his permission until he was a crumpled heap against the side of the bed. Sam stepped to his side in slow careful movements, like he was approaching a skittish cat. He sat on the floor with all the exquisite grace of a ballet dancer, keeping several inches of space between the two of them. Dean stared at him, waiting, watching for something. It never came, and all the fight went out of him like a puff of air.

Dean's head fell forward and he pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapping arms around them. His baby brother just stayed where he was, sitting perfectly still with an indecipherable look on his face. His fingers curled and uncurled repetitively in the thick carpet fibres at his knee, as if he was debating something in his head, the action a point of focus.

Dean almost expected it when Sam pushed himself forward and into a cross-legged position in front of him. He kept eye contact, watching Dean warily as he reached out a hand, slipping it behind Dean's neck and gently pulling him down like he wanted to kiss him.

He leaned forward, offering no resistance to Sam's hand on the back of his neck. Giving in to Sam had never been hard. Except something was different this time, and Dean couldn't quite figure it out. But this didn't seem like the prelude to another marathon sex session, or the start of one of Sam's manic drawing sprees.

Sam tugged gently until they were practically forehead to forehead, leaning together over their crossed legs. Dean stared hard, seeing the deep hazel of his brother's eyes, the catlike tilt to the corners.

And then, somehow, he was looking at his own eyes, wide and unblinking and inches away from him. His hand was raised, pressed to warm skin, except that was Sam's hand, surely? The touch buzzed, like all the energy their two bodies could create was drawn to that one point. A constant hum of soundless feeling all painted in the same shade of purple worry-love emanated from his body in front of him, so strong he could feel it pulsing through every inch of him.

sammysammyprotectsammysamlovesammy

A whisper of amusement that felt like melted caramel stroked at the back of his head and he tried to turn and see it, but there was no back, and he didn't seem to have a head. Before he could start panicking something pushed up beside him, something that felt warm and familiar and soothing.

Sammy?

The presence beside him rubbed softly against his own…whatever he was. It seemed to pull him forward, little petting tendrils of feeling telling him it was okay. And it was more Sammy than anything Dean had seen or felt since picking up the comatose body of his brother, since years ago when eighteen year old Sam had left with a dufflebag and no goodbye. It made him want to cry.

But there was no time, Sammything was dragging him now, away from their bodies and up. They seemed to hover weightless in nothing, until a barrage of colours and lights hit with a physical crash, suddenly choking Dean like it had all gotten caught in his throat.

Sam seemed to wrap himself around Dean then, and it got easier to breathe, to follow Sam's lead. Tiny snippets like movie scenes flashed by, too fast to comprehend. It was almost overwhelming in its intensity and Dean tried to close his eyes to the chaos before realising hey, no eyes. Sam didn't seem to be affected in the same way. His brother was calm here, letting the images wash over him like he was in the ocean, content to let the tides do with him as they would.

It made Dean's metaphorical heartbeat slow a little to feel his brother so unworried. Tucking himself closer to Sam, he let the moving pictures wrap themselves around the two of them, tangling for a second before moving on.

After god knew how long, Sam apparently decided it was time to leave. Dean couldn't agree more. How Sam could stand to be in that place without going completely insane…oh.

Before Dean could begin puzzling through his revelation, he was being pulled like a dog on a string back down. Sam seemed to have a destination in mind, and Dean let him lead.

And suddenly they were back at Missouri's house, and Dean could feel every breath, every pump of blood around his body. But Sam tugged him away from that and Dean followed, because it was Sam.

A whisper of colour. Dean was caught and transfixed, turning toward it like a fish to a lure. The neighbours were fighting over something, and brilliant red sparks flew in showerbursts. Through the bedroom wall, he could hear a little girl, sore and crying in a heap of dark blue, her thoughts screaming loud for everyone to hear - ihatemymommywhydoigottagotoschoolihateitihateit - Sam was a few steps behind, doing his best mental impression of irritated foot tapping. Dean reluctantly pulled back from the tiny sparks of people.

Sam led him down again, only this time it was more of a physical down. Dean concentrated hard, and briefly everything came into a dull sort of focus; Missouri's house in black and white, like the lines had been drawn into an etch-a-sketch. In the living room, a grey mist floated above one of the sofas. Dean moved closer, realising with a start that it was his dad. His journal lay on the table in front of him, projecting almost as much grey as John's body. As Dean watched, a sliver of rose slipped through the mist, accompanied by an impression of a laugh that felt like the Impala's engine warming up on a cold morning. He concentrated and caught a flash image of John's thought; a picture of himself at six, holding two year old Sammy awkwardly in his little boy arms in the backseat of the Impala. Sammy was giggling hysterically, and little Dean leaned down to blow another raspberry on Sammy's bare belly. It wasn't a memory Dean remembered, but it made him smile all the same. He would have stayed longer, watching forgotten moments from his childhood, but Sam was impatient and tugging at him.

In the kitchen, Missouri's presence was accompanied by a hum of song. She was lit up brighter than the other people Dean had seen, practically glowing in soft green. As he watched, Sam darted forward, poking her playfully. The song stopped abruptly and Dean saw pink-tinged flutters like butterfly wings float across her surface. Sammy Winchester, you stop messin' around now and go practise puttin' yourself together again, or I swear there'll be no cookies for after dinner tomorrow night. Dean would have jumped backward at the sharp and clear thoughts but Sam just seemed amused.

And then, intruding on the edges of his mind; a girl running down a dark hallway, her face streaked in tears and terror. Something following, creeping on soft feet.

Sam pushed it away hard before Dean could get a good look.

With a heavy thump, he was back in his body. Sam's eyes blinked in front of his own and Dean was transfixed for a second by the startling colour. Sam leaned back, pulling his hand away from Dean's neck. The skin-on-skin contact felt like the softest silk, and Dean wanted to cry at how good that was.

He raised his head, his eyes catching on the floral bedspread. Each individual flower was sown in perfect symmetry, the light pinks and yellows of the petals so impossible in their muted colour. Dean wanted to touch, to feel how smooth the stitches would be on his fingertips. But then the pattern of the carpet distracted him, the stiff fibres scratchy and warm. He stroked his hand through it, marvelling at the way it moved and caught on his fingernails.

Everything in this room was amazing, and he never wanted to look at anything else again. Except maybe outside would have even more amazing things to look at and touch and smell and…

Sam reached out and stroked a gentle hand against his cheek, skin to skin. Dean jerked at the contact, his mind focusing instantly. Sam's touch realigned everything in his mind, pushing all the freefalling pieces into place. The incredulity of everything in the room faded away and he looked over at his brother, feeling embarrassed. Sam was watching him, the tiniest hint of a grin touching one corner of his mouth.

"Sammy?" His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't used it in months.

Sam opened his mouth, shut it, tried again. The words that finally came out were soft. "You saw. Did you get it?"

Dean blinked away sudden tears. "Yeah, Sammy. I got it."