Author's notes: This is Dean's POV. His thoughts are more disjointed and not as lyrical as Sam's. But Sam was tired and refused to talk to me.

Berserker (Part 2)

Dean takes a long, shuddering breath as soon as Sam removes his hands from his throat. His body contorts, his eyes open and close and his hand comes up to clutch at the newly raw patch of skin on his neck.

He is not actually aware of any of these reactions. And he is most certainly not aware of the drama that is unfolding around him. He is only aware of the fact that he is getting air. And that his body wants more.

He takes one greedy gulp of it after another, not caring that it feels as if he is taking in acid with each one. He does this until his breathing mostly evens out and the muscles in his body become lax. He takes a brief moment to reassure himself that he is indeed alive, because really, for all intents and purposes he should be a goner, then he turns his head to the side to see what the hell just happened.

Except that everything is blurred and distorted and he can't make out a damn thing. He realizes that the tears that are streaming furiously down his face are to blame and he wipes them away with an impatient, albeit it shaky, hand.

He is surprised to see that the kids are now in the room with him. The boy, whose name he cannot seem to remember, is standing over Sam's prone body. The girl, whose name he remembers as Kat, is standing a few feet away from all of them. The shotgun in her hands is pointing steadily at Sam.

They are discussing, in slightly hysterical tones, whether or not Sam is dead. Dean hears the boy tell Kat that Sam is alive, that he's just unconscious, and he offers up a silent thank you to whoever wants to take credit for that fact.

The boy, apparently feeling there's nothing he can do for Sam, steps away from him and walks toward Dean. He kneels down next to him and places a tentative hand on his shoulder. He asks if he is all right. Dean almost scoffs at the question. And because he's not sure how to even begin to answer it, he ignores it completely. Instead he tells the boy that he has to be the one to burn Ellicott's bones. Talking is pure agony, both from his throat and from his chest, and his voice does not rise above a whisper, but he still manages to instruct the boy on what to do. He prays that the boy will be quick. He is not sure that he can protect them all from Sam if he wakes before the ghost is exorcized.

Kat kneels next to him then, shotgun still in hand and still pointed at Sam. Dean realizes that she is protecting him from his own brother. He finds that both absurdly sweet and horribly sad. "He was trying to kill you," she says. "I thought he was your friend."

"So did I."

The boy manages to find the bones, salt them and throw the lighter fluid on them. Dean couldn't be prouder. He would praise him if he could only remember his goddamn name, and if he could talk without the urge to throw up.

He is about to set the bones alight when Ellicott's ghost comes out of nowhere and grabs onto him - a pain in the ass until the very end, that Ellicott. The boy starts to scream as blue lightning flashes around his head.

Despite the pain shooting through his body and the very real possibility that he could be fucking himself up worse, Dean forces himself to begin to move. His intent is to help somehow, but the girl is quicker. She puts the shotgun down, picks up the discarded lighter and flicks it on. Then she throws it on the son of a bitch's remains.

Forget the boy, Kat's couldn't make him any prouder if she was Dean's own daughter.

All three of them watch in silence as Ellicott's spirit burns away until there is nothing left of him but the faint smell of ozone in the air.

Dean lowers himself gently back to the floor. Now that it's over, he wishes he could just close his eyes and sleep and try to forget. Every inch of him seems to hurt. And he is so tired, so very tired. And while Kat and the boy with no name are wrapped around each other and comforting each other, he is alone. He has no one to tell him that everything is all right. He has no one to lie to him and tell him that his brother did not really mean to kill him.

It doesn't take long for Sam to wake up. Dean watches him carefully, as one would watch a snake. He is searching for any signs that his brother is still not himself. He watches as Sam first wakes up to pain, then confusion, then the dawning of realization.

He watches as Sam gets up and starts making his way over to him. He grits his teeth and wishes for a fast-forward button so that he won't have to endure whatever is about to come next.

The boy, seeing Sam moving toward him, yells, "Hey, get away from him!"

"It's ok," Dean whispers. "It's over. Isn't it, Sam?"

Sam, looking more shell-shocked than anything, nods. "Yeah. It's over."

Sam reaches Dean and drops down on his knees next to him. He extends his hand toward Dean's face, but Dean flinches away from the touch. He doesn't mean to, he'd much rather play stoic hard-guy, but he's pretty damn sure that he can't handle his brother's touching him right now. Because somewhere, in a dark place that he barely even allows himself to recognize, he is just a little bit afraid of him.

"Dean, oh God . . . Are you . . . oh God . . . "

Dean knows Sam well enough to mentally translate these words into full sentences. "I'll be fine. Just get me to the motel," he replies.

"No. No, you need a hospital."

"No hospital."

"We're not arguing about this. You need a doctor. You need a hospital."

Dean swallows painfully, and opens his mouth to continue to protest. The protest, however, dies a quick death on his lips. He's too tired and in too much pain to argue. And the truth is, Sam is probably right, he does need a hospital. But he feels the need to get in one good dig even as he agrees. "That's right. We do things your way now. Forgot."

Sam's face twists with guilt and Dean feels somewhat better knowing that he has hurt him. He knows it is childish, but it is all he can seem to latch onto.

He expects Sam to begin to apologize, to unravel, but his little brother surprises him. He manages to erase the guilty, haunted look from his face and he begins to bark orders in a way that would make any commando proud - in a way that would make their father proud. He tells the kids that they are to go home and to tell no one of what happened. He takes everything that he and Dean brought in with them, shotguns included, and stashes them away in the trunk of the car when he walks the kids outside. Then he comes back and quickly tells Dean their cover story: they are new in town, they heard about the asylum and thought it would be fun to poke around in it. Once inside, they were assaulted and robbed by two guys who were apparently squatting there.

When he finishes, Sam asks Dean if he understands what he needs to say.

Dean, a little in awe of his brother's transformation into their father, can only nod.

Then Sam calls 911.

The ride to the hospital and the subsequent exam are a dim blur for Dean. Mostly because he is sliding in and out of consciousness the entire time. He is only vaguely aware that Sam held his hand and muttered reassurances to him the entire time.

When the doctor asks him questions to determine how lucid he is, he finds he cannot answer. It is all too much, all of it too much, and how can he possibly be expected to tell anyone what the name of the President is or even his own name for that matter when his own brother has just tried to kill him?

The doctor seems concerned by his lack of response, but decides to attribute his silence to psychological, not head trauma. After x-rays are done, his arm is set, and his cuts are cleaned and stitched, the doctor leans down and tells him that he is lucky that his injuries weren't worse. He does not bother to tell her that she couldn't be more wrong about his luck.

Eventually they move him to a semi-private room with no roommate and leave him in relative peace. It is the first time that he has been alone since this living nightmare started. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about what happened or why he is here. He knows that thinking about it will be like falling into the deepest, darkest pit imaginable and that he may never find his way out of it.

But he thinks about it all the same.

He thinks about how much his brother must hate him. Oh, he knows that Sam loves him, nothing in the world will ever change that certainty, but he just never imagined that hate could coexist with that love. He thinks about how badly Sam hurt him and the smile on his face when he was doing it. And he thinks about, and relives over and over, the moment when Sam placed his hands around his throat and began to squeeze. He thinks about nearly dying under those hands.

That thought, the thought that Sam almost killed him, resonates most loudly. Sam - his little brother, the man whom he would walk through fire for, the man whom he would die for without a second thought. God, the same man that he always gave the best G.I. Joes to . . .

Dean bites back on a sob. Fuck, he can't do this. The last thing he needs right now is to turn into a weeping mess on this bed.

He manages to pull himself together, barely, when he hears footfalls entering the room.

Even with his eyes closed and his body pumped full of drugs, he recognizes the steps of his brother.

His ears tell him that Sam is pulling up a chair next to him, so he turns his head away from him, opens his eyes and stares at the blank whiteness of the wall.

"Hey," Sam says softly.

Dean replies in kind as he studies insignificant patterns on that wall.

"How do you feel?"

"I've felt better."

"I...ummm . . . I talked to the police. They believe the story, but they want to talk to you tomorrow. Just so you know."

"Ok."

"Listen Dean, about what happened earlier . . . I'm so sorry. I know I said and did some horrible things back there."

"You remember all that?"

"Yeah, it's like I couldn't control it. But I didn't mean it."

"What part?"

"Huh?"

"What part didn't you mean?" Dean turns his head to stare at his brother at last. "The part where you called me pathetic? Or the part where you told me you were going to cram my tongue down my throat? Or . . . or my personal favorite - the part where you almost strangled me to death?"

But Sam no longer appears to be listening. He is staring at Dean's face, horrified. "Oh God, Dean . . . your eyes . . . "

"Yeah, strangled, remember?"

Sam's face is all guilt and remorse and a hundred other different kinds of pain as he reaches for him. But Dean is already turning away.

"Forget it, Sam. I don't want to talk about it."

"Dean, we have to talk about this. We can't just bury this."

Dean feels Sam's hand on his arm and he jerks it away. "I'm not really in the caring, sharing kind of mood."

"Please look at me, man. Please just look at me."

"Sam, I'm tired. I just want to sleep."

"I'm sorry, Dean. You know I would never hurt you intentionally."

Dean scoffs. He's never realized it before, but sorry is such a piss-poor word. It solves nothing. It saves nothing.

"Dean . . . "

"Sam . . . "

He hears Sam sigh in defeat. "At least tell me you don't hate me. Then I'll leave you alone."

Dean ponders the request. Of course he doesn't hate Sam. They could replay that scene in the asylum a thousand times and Dean would never feel hatred toward Sam. He's just not sure if he wants to let Sam know that. His brother is looking for absolution and Dean isn't sure if he wants to give it to him. And why should he? Why should Sam be at peace when he himself feels like he's just been ripped apart and put back together by a blind, idiot child?

He answers his own angry question almost as soon as he asks it. Because Sam needs absolution. And he has never been able to deny Sam anything. He figures he'll find his own peace eventually.

"I don't hate you," he says.

"Really?" Only one word, but it is so full of hope.

Dean closes his eyes and thinks about that little boy with his torn jeans and his G.I. Joes. The thought makes him tired; mind-numbingly, vastly tired.

"I love you, Sam. Always."