Same old, same old. I don't own Sam or Dean (although I would gladly invite them into my possession if they so desired - hint hint - however, the story is a product of my own ingenious mind. Toot toot.

Hi guys, sorry it took me so long to update. I had my nieces this weekend, and they commandeered the computer so they could deal with their Sims families. Anyway, I hope the wait was well worth it. I don't know if this makes any difference to you guys or not, but I thought it would add to the story if I tell you that a lot of this stems from experience. My brother did drugs until the day he died - but not the prescription kind. He was in and out of rehab for years, so, although I never experienced the detox first hand, I do have some experience with the subject. You write what you know, right? (And btw, I didn't tell you that to illicit sympathy - he was 15 years older, so I barely knew him. He was just another situation my parents dealt with over the years) So I'm assuming the emotions, but the facts come from experience. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. And so it begins...

It was more than an hour before Sam regained consciousness, and when he did he found himself laid prone on one of the two beds in the room. His eyes opened to just slits as he brought his hand up to rub at the aching temple where Dean's fist had connected. In the split second before Dean realized Sam was awake, Sam was able to study his brother. Dean sat sprawled on the other bed, his injured knee propped up by a pillow. The laptop was on and papers and pamphlets were strewn all over the bed, and Dean was studying them intently. Guilt and worry were etched noticeably in his eyes as he knitted his forehead into a frown. As Sam studied him, he realized he'd been wrong to fear his brother. He wasn't furious, he was scared; just like Sam was.

Dean looked up as he heard the rustling in the other bed, quickly plastering the firm and unforgiving glare on his face as he eyed Sam. The reaction was purely an act, formed to provide him with the strength he would need to get through this nightmare, but it served him well. It had killed him to be so stern, cruel might even be a better word, but it was the only way he could think of to get through to Sam. And it was the only way he could think of to get through to himself. If that's what was necessary to rid Sam of the drugs in his system then he wouldn't be giving up the fight anytime soon.

"How's your head?" Dean asked, emotionless as he angled himself to face Sam.

"You punched me," Sam answered, suddenly remembering why his head felt like he'd been attacked by a five hundred pound sledge hammer. He rubbed the spot, pointedly shooting accusing daggers in Dean's direction. "Why?"

Dean sighed, wincing as he removed his knee from on top of the stack of pillows and pulling it over the edge of the bed so he could sit fully. "You really don't know why?"

Gears turned visibly in Sam's head as he chewed on his bottom lip. Knees were drawn tightly against his chest, and he looked away from Dean, a clear indication of guilt. Sure, he knew exactly why Dean had hit him, and he knew it was necessary. But did he really want to go so far as to admit it? "I guess I kinda lost it there, for a minute, huh."

A slight nod of the head was all Dean afforded Sam before launching into a lecture. "You did more than just lose it, little brother. You were crazy. But those pills...you can't let them control you like that. You have to fight them. You have to fight their effects." He studied the younger boy, knowing the waning supply of drug in his system was already beginning to take its toll on Sam's body. He had no idea how much longer Sam would be lucid enough to take part in this conversation before he was fully consumed by withdrawal, but he knew he needed to get Sam to commit to detox before he lost the fight completely.

Dean's face was marred, the combination of scars caused by the broken glass and the black thread used to stitch them up railroading across his face and neck. He'd opted against bandages, pulling them from his skin the minute he'd escaped to the bathroom in the hospital. And Sam stared at the ugly slashes with disgust, not in the wounds themselves but in himself, because the wounds had been preventable. Because if he'd been sober when they had faced the Warlock there was a good chance that Dean never would have been caught in the levitation trap that had caused the injuries. Because if he hadn't stopped to take five more pills before running to Dean's aid none of this would have happened.

Sam studied his hands, the mild trembling not lost on him as he reached up to wipe his nose with the back of his hand. "I made a mistake, Dean. How long are you going to make me pay for it?" He suddenly froze, realizing he'd said the words out loud. Seconds before, they had just been thoughts, mental blames, actually, as his own mind terrorized himself with guilt. Dean's cuts, his injured knee, the fractured arm, not to mention the surgery Dean had undergone just a day before to stop the internal bleeding, they were all taunting reminders of Sam's failure. And to top it all off, Dean was still pushing aside his own pain to deal with Sam, to deal with his little brother's problems. The guilt welled up inside Sam until he finally burst, spouting the only words that had been running through his angst ridden conscious.

"Until those drugs are out of your system," came the matter of fact response, as though the question hadn't come from left field. "And then for the rest of your life if you ever ever come close to doing anything like this again. I know you couldn't help becoming dependant on those god-forsaken pills, but I really wish you would have talked to me about it. You should have talked to me about it."

"Dean, I tried. I wanted to tell you. But I just...couldn't. Every time I opened my mouth to say something, you always changed the subject or made some stupid joke. And I just didn't have the strength to stop you. I knew you would be so disappointed in me. I didn't want to see your reaction. I couldn't bear to see your face."

It felt like he had just been slapped in the face, and Dean's heart sank at the sting of Sam's admission. He'd tried to talk to him; Sam had made the effort, and Dean had brushed him off like yesterday's news. He rose painfully, crossing the short distance between their beds before collapsing on the edge beside Sam. He gulped, realizing as he sat that he was losing his edge to his own guilt. Dean tried to span the two, the guilt with the need to remain in control, and faced Sam, locking his eyes firmly with his brother's. "Tell you what - I'll admit I was an ass just as soon as you prove to me that you can beat this thing. It's gonna get worse before it gets better, and I need your word that you're going to fight with everything you have. And more than anything, I need your word that you're going to trust me to help you."

The hesitation seemed to last forever. Dean found himself holding his breath, waiting for Sam to give an answer, hoping that he would choose the right one. And he did. One side of Sam's mouth turned up, offering the slightest sign of apprehensive confirmation. "OK, Dean. I trust you. I'll fight this thing."

Relief filled Dean's features, and his tense shoulders became noticeably relaxed. "Thank you, Sammy...for trusting me. Now go get washed up. You look like crap." He playfully swatted at the boy, grateful for the small offering of lightheartedness he'd been given, knowing it wouldn't last long. The pamphlets he'd been given had outlined addiction in gory detail, and the withdrawal seemed almost worse. Even worse than the pamphlets were the personal accounts he'd read on the internet; hour by hour, day by day, he'd read every detail of detox and Dean was scared. This would be worse than any ghostly possession they'd encountered, because there was nothing he could do beyond just being there for Sam. There would be no exorcisms, no expelling the demon that was about to invade his already weakened body. Dean would have to sit back and watch, and just pray that he was strong enough to help his brother get through this.

The thump, followed by an anguished cry, had Dean tearing frantically into the bathroom. Sam was on the ground, doubled over in pain, as the water continued to run from the faucet. "Sam!" he screamed, falling at the younger boy's side, his hand going unconsciously to his own stomach and the stitched wound, but ignoring his protesting knee as it bent at an undesired angle. "Oh God, my stomach, it hurts!" Sam cried, rocking back and forth in an unsuccessful attempt to stop the pain that had started in a split second.

"How, Sammy, how does it hurt?" Dean asked anxiously, guiding the boy backward to lean against the tub.

"Cramps!" Sam sobbed, still hugging his stomach with shaking hands. "Make it stop, Dean. God, make it stop." Tears ran down his face and his body trembled as he collapsed against Dean. His breath came out in shallow pants as he tried to gain control of his pain wracked body, but none came, and instead, the cramps worsened. "It hurts, Dean."

"Shhh," Dean soothed, pulling his brother against him and stroking his hair. His head reeled, amazed at how quickly the attack had come on, and how powerful. Nothing in the pamphlets had prepared him for the instantaneous intensity that had invaded his little brother's body. One minute Sam had been fine, and now this. "Shh, Sammy, it's OK. I've got you. It's going to be OK."

Promises were forgotten as easily as they were made as Sam began to whimper into Dean's shoulder, fingers clawing desperately at the older mans already ripped shirt. "Please, Dean, I need something. Just one...please, I just need one."

"You know I can't do that, Sam," the tone was apologetic. Dean hated to see his little brother in pain, but there was nothing he could do. The best thing he could do for the boy was nothing. "You're just going to have to fight through this. Fight, Sam. Push through," his voice rose, firm and unrelenting. "You can do this, Sammy, I know you can."

The sobbing got louder, faster, and Sam's hands became more frantic as he pounded against Dean's chest. "I can't, Dean. I need something. Just one. Please!"

Dean winced as Sam's fist connected with fresh stitches, and his good hand reached out and clamped itself onto Sam's wrist, praying that he wouldn't need to contain the other one, too. "Breathe, Sam. Deep breaths. I have faith in you. You can get through this."

The degree to which Sam calmed was minuscule, but there was enough of a difference that Dean was able to rise from the floor and stumble to the sink. He filled one of the plastic cups with cold water and lowered himself back on the ground beside Sam, shoving the cup into the boy's hands.

Water sloshed over the sides of the cup as Sam's trembling hands gripped the plastic, indenting the sides. He brought it to his lips and gulped, coughing a little as he choked on the liquid.

"Drink some more," Dean coaxed, helping his brother tip the cup against his lips. "Sip it. Don't chug."

It helped a little, and Sam slumped against Dean, the worst of the cramping spell over. But it was far from gone. Sweat now poured down his face and body, soaking his t-shirt. He could feel his heart beating frantically against his chest wall, threatening to break free. His body was shaking to the point of resembling convulsions. And, though less noticeable, the cramping in his stomach had far from disappeared. Tears mixed with the sweat on Sam's face, and he buried his face in his own shirt, lifted unceremoniously from his heaving stomach. "I don't think I can do this," he bawled.

And soon, Dean's arms were wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him tight. "You can, and you will," Dean assured him, guiding him back to his feet and out of the room. Leaning on each other, they made their way to Sam's bed where Dean lowered the boy down and against the pillow.

"You're going to be absolutely fine," Dean assured him as he pulled the sweat soaked shirt from his bother's torso. "Now just stay here. I'll be back in a minute."

Sam nodded, watching his older brother disappear back into the bathroom. Dean returned soon after, clutching a wet washcloth in his good hand. He lowered himself to the bed, hovering over Sam's shivering body, pressing the cool water against his skin and wiping away the sweat. He flinched, inadvertently shying away from the ice cold feel of the compress. But Dean persisted, consumed with worry as he noted the feverish quality to Sam's body and the suddenly glazed eyes that seemed to be staring at nothing.

The timeline ran though Dean's mind as though it were a picture show, remembering how the recent events had unfolded. As he pressed the cool cloth to Sam's face he thought about their arrival into the town, less than twenty four hours before. The cloth dabbed at Sam's neck and Dean flashed to Sam's seizure, and his own attack from the Warlock. Touching Sam's chest dredged up the memory of waking in the hospital and finding out Sam's secret from the do-gooder doctors. God, how he hated those doctors now as he watched his brother writhing in agony from the tragic onset of withdrawal. A split second's desperation had him wishing they had just kept their mouth's shut and left him in the dark to Sam's problem. But he knew it was for the better; knew that no amount of looking the other way could have prevented what was presently happening. This was bound to happen sometime, because the only other alternative would have been Sam's death from his own carelessness.

The washcloth had become warm as Dean gently caressed Sam's moist body and he pried himself from the bed to rinse and re-cool the washcloth, excusing himself although Sam barely knew he was there any more. His injured arm went to his stomach, pressing tight against the surgical wound in an effort to ease the pain and he swayed a little, feeling lightheaded. He closed the door behind him, as he entered the bathroom and set the washcloth on the sink, saving that for last. He needed two minutes, just two, to devote to his own injuries, and as he lifted the torn shirt from his stomach Dean's fears were confirmed. The bandage that covered the wound was now soaked crimson with his blood.