Aw geez, I was so busy apologizing for the horrible delay last chapter, I forgot to thank you for all the amazing reviews for chapter 26! Holy moly - I should ask direct questions more often! Thanks for your input, you guys! And thank you so much for the comments on the last chapter, too. I wasn't expecting any since it was low on action, so each one meant a lot to me.

Okay, before you start thinking this fic is spiralling out of control, I think it's safe to say there's only two, maybe three, more chapters left - but they'll probably be longer than this one. I just hope you're still enjoying this!

Sam's head snapped back from the blow as he stumbled on his heels, his nose exploding with pain.

Immediately Sam straightened and raised his gun, suddenly thinking that this wasn't Dean, this was just a guy who shifted into Dean's image. Just another St. Louis. Dean, after all, was right-handed.

But then Sam saw the handcuff that encircled his right wrist. Dean, he realized, was chained to a metal pipe that ran from the floor up through the ceiling. Taking a quick survey, Sam saw a few lengths of frayed rope and a twisted rag lying the floor. Dean had been bound and gagged, and Sam must have caught him just as he was trying to free himself.

"Dean, what the hell!" he exclaimed, raising his hand to test his nose. He suspected it was broken, and his fingertips came back red. Normally, a punch like that from Dean would knock a man unconscious, and the only reason Sam was still standing was because Dean had to use his left hand and his arms were still injured from Annie's attack.

"You bastard," Dean spat at him, taking a threatening step forward.

Sam frowned. This wasn't exactly the reunion he expected. "What's gotten into you?" he asked. "What'd I do?"

"Oh, come on--don't play dumb," his brother shot back angrily. "I know you're not Sam, so just give it up, all right?"

Sam's frown deepened. "What do you mean? Of course I'm Sam."

"The hell you are."

"Dean, listen," Sam replied, rolling his eyes. They didn't have time for this. "How could the shapeshifter turn into me if I wasn't even here?"

Dean grunted with annoyance. "You should have used that argument before you turned into my father, you jackass," he replied.

It had turned into their dad? Sam blinked a couple of times, suddenly speechless. That was different. In St. Louis, the shapeshifter had to establish some type of visual or physical connection before it could change into a particular person.

"Dean, I'm not the shapeshifter, alright?" he said forcefully. "I'm your brother."

"My brother is on a bus headed for California," Dean shot back.

"No, I changed my mind," Sam told him, shaking his head. "I needed to talk to you."

But Dean only snorted and lifted his eyebrows. "Yeah, sure."

Frustrated and unsettled, Sam paused to study him while his mind frantically tried to think of a way to convince him. Dean looked back warily, his eyes narrowed and his posture tense and ready.

Two brothers standing before each other, one not realizing who the other one was. The situation was infuriatingly familiar to Sam.

For a split second, Sam thought about taking advantage. It was so tempting. His brother was locked up, unable to go anywhere. Maybe Dean would tell a shapeshifter things he would never tell Sam. Dean wasn't the type to spill his guts to anyone, let alone his enemies, but even the sarcastic answers he spouted could tell Sam more than the brushed off replies Sam usually got from his brother.

But Sam couldn't do that. He dismissed the idea as quickly as it had occurred to him. As much as he wanted to get inside Dean's mind, he'd do it the long, old-fashioned way. The ugly version of a chick-flick moment.

But he'd have to set Dean free, first.

He sighed to himself. "Look, let's just get you out of here," he said, stepping forward.

But Dean reacted violently, shoving Sam away with his free arm. "Stay away from me, you son of a bitch."

Sam stumbled backwards with a grunt. "I'm trying to get you free!" he protested, raising his arms in a quick surrender. But Dean only snorted derisively. "Dean, it's me. You can tell that, can't you?"

"I can tell you're projecting my mental image of my brother, yeah." Dean crossed his arm around his middle. "Great job, by the way. My father was at least believable."

So the shapeshifter used mental projections somehow – Sam filed that away for future reference, along with Dean's last remark. Right now, he was more concerned about getting his brother to trust him. "But I'm trying to release you!" Sam tried again, showing him the twisted paperclip he had in his hand.

"So what then—You taunt me, make me think I'm safe and free, just for giggles?"

Sam frowned, confused by Dean's resistance. Even if he were just toying with him, Dean would still take that opportunity to get free. He can't fight as effectively if he's cuffed into place.

"Hey, listen to me read your mind this time," Dean went on scathingly, startling Sam. "Let's see--You'll release me and we'll go upstairs together, right? And you'll tell me things you know I want to hear." His glare darkened with each word he spoke. "And just when I start thinking that, hey, maybe you really are my brother, you'll shove all my deep dark nightmares down my throat and tell me how much you hate me, just to see if I'll cry for you."

He raised his eyebrows jeeringly. "Pretty close, huh? And then--get this--right at the height of this little angst-fest, you're going to blow me away with the gun you stole right from my own car."

Sam glanced down at the gun he still held in his hand. "What? No! Dean, you don't-"

Dean shrugged one shoulder. "Or maybe you'll stab me in the back, or hell, slit my throat. That's the only part of your plan that isn't so goddamn predictable."

Horrified, Sam shook his head and wanted to interrupt, but Dean talked right over him.

"Whatever you do, you'll make sure we're out in public, just so people can see that my brother was the one to do it. That way you get to ruin two lives at once." Sam made a disbelieving, protesting noise in his throat, but that only angered Dean. "That's how you work, isn't it?" he spat. "That's how you get off, you sick freak?"

Sam felt his stomach twist, not realizing until just then how complicated this was turning out. "Dean, you have to trust me…"

"I'm not playing your stupid little game," Dean shot back. "If you want a fight, we'll do it right here."

"But I don't want to fight you," Sam tried to tell him, wishing his voice wasn't so pleading. "I just want to get us out of here." He took a step forward, brandishing the paperclip in his hand.

"I'm not going with you," said Dean, stopping him in his tracks.

Sam didn't like the sick sheen on his brother's face, and he knew he needed to end this as soon as he could.

"Dean, I remember now," he told him in a rush. "At the bus station, I remembered the demon, I remembered how you were hurt." Sam spoke frantically, the words tumbling from his mouth as he desperately tried to get Dean to believe him. "And I called Lt. Stevens, asked her for a ride. You told me you were in Tulsa, and we tracked your car down. Dean, I remembered how we were, how I was in a really black place, and I remembered how things ended. I didn't want to go back to Stanford, I wanted to find you--"

"Stop it!" Dean suddenly shouted, interrupting him. He chopped his arm through the air in a violent gesture. "Stop playing with me—Just kill me now, alright?"

Sam froze instantly, feeling the blood drain from his face. "What?" he breathed.

"If you're going to kill me, kill me now, dammit."

Sam had never seen that reaction from his brother before. He couldn't tell if he was bluffing and putting on a tough front, or if he really meant what he said. Sam stared at him for a long moment, and Dean glared back unwaveringly.

"So you're giving up? Just like that?" Sam asked, appalled. He didn't hold back the shock or anger that colored his tone.

"If that's what it takes." Dean looked back at him, his chin slightly raised. "I'm not going through this with you. I'm not letting you drag my brother into this."

Sam wanted to smack the sense into him, and he would have if he thought it would work. Dean had always been protective; that didn't surprise Sam. Family was Dean's weak spot. But that never meant giving himself up, not unless it was a last resort. And Dean never really believed in last resorts – there was always another way.

Sam set his jaw. "If you're giving up, then I am too," he said.

He could tell that startled Dean, though his expression only flickered for an instant. "What do you mean?" Dean asked after a beat, sounding weary and hesitant at the same time.

Sam handed him his gun, turning it so it was pointing back at himself. As soon as Dean's hand was wrapped firmly around it, Sam stepped backwards and held up his hands. "There," he said. "Shoot me now."

"What?" Dean stammered, his eyebrows furrowing. The hand holding the gun bobbed through the air.

Sam knew he was taking a big risk, but he counted on the fact that Dean rarely killed a creature in cold blood. As long as Sam didn't try to attack Dean, he figured – hoped – he'd be safe. "If you're sure I'm the shapeshifter, go ahead and shoot me," Sam repeated.

Despite his confident words, his chest heaved with heavy breaths, and drops of sweat broke out along his hairline. He couldn't stop his eyes from straying towards the weapon aimed at his chest.

So this was how it felt to be on the opposite end of the gun from his brother. Sam definitely owed Dean a better apology for the Rockford Asylum incident, he realized.

--If he ever got the chance. Dean steadied his hand, leveling the barrel straight at Sam's heart. His face took on that same confident, determined look he always wore whenever he stood behind a gun. Sam tensed involuntarily, recognizing that look, but he took a deep breath to calm himself.

But then Dean's hand started to shake again. "Change, goddammit," he said through gritted teeth.

"Huh?" Sam asked, startled.

"Dammit, be someone else," Dean demanded, louder this time, waving his gun threateningly. "Pastor Jim, a Playboy bunny--hell, turn into my mom!" Sam gaped helplessly at him, taken aback by the desperation in his voice. "I don't care--just change!"

As understanding dawned on him, Sam swallowed and blinked back the tears that suddenly started to burn in his eyes. They had already too much crap to deal with to now go through this.

He took a small step forward, painfully aware of the gun still aimed at his heart. "The first time I saw the shapeshifter in St. Louis, it looked just like you, Dean," he said to him. "It even knew everything you did." Sam tilted his head forward for emphasis, his eyes never leaving Dean's. "But I could still tell it wasn't you. And I had a chance to shoot it, to end it right there. But I couldn't. I couldn't shoot my own brother."

He paused, keeping Dean's gaze as his story sunk in. "Did you know that?" he asked pointedly.

Dean shook his head, not as an answer to Sam's question, but a denial of what Sam was implying. "I'm sure you—Sam told me," he said.

"No, Dean, I didn't." He had been too embarrassed, and he knew Dean would only rag on him for letting himself be overtaken so easily when he had a gun on him. He rather let Dean think he'd been tricked. And if Dean didn't know about that incident, a psychic shapeshifter couldn't know either.

But Dean refused to be convinced, and Sam saw him swallow before a terse smirk twisted his lips. "So you're a creative son-of-a-bitch, so what?" he replied dismissively.

This was getting ridiculous. Sam just knew he was going to lose his mind.

"Dammit, Dean!" he cried, throwing his hands into the air in exasperation.

To Sam's surprise, a grin started to spread across Dean's face. "Hey, that was pretty good!" he replied brightly, gesturing at him with the gun. "You're getting closer to the real Sam."

Sam choked. "What!" he sputtered indignantly.

But inside, he let himself breath a sigh of relief. Even if Dean still didn't believe him, Sam now knew they'd passed a critical point and hit a kind of plateau.As long asDean was cracking jokes, everything would be fine.

It was time to get moving so they could both get out of there alive. Then they could sort this whole mess out.

So Sam rolled his eyes like he always did at Dean's jokes, and got down to business.

"Okay, I'm going to pick the lock off your handcuffs, alright?" he told him. He indicated Dean's hand with a nod. "Look, you still have the gun. You can shoot me if I do anything funny."

"See, that's how I know you're not really Sam," Dean replied.

"What do you mean?"

"Sam hasn't done anything 'funny' his whole life."

Sam gave him a long look and thought maybe he should smack him. But instead, he just shrugged and stepped towards the metal pipe.

"I don't know," he said lightly. "That girl Jennie thought it was pretty funny when I replaced all your band posters with Saved by the Bell." He grinned as he grabbed the handcuff around Dean's wrist. Even ten years later, he remembered the expression on his brother's face the moment he saw Screech and A.C. Slater plastered all over his bedroom walls.

"That was not funny," Dean protested, but the corners of his lips were twitching. Sam grinned back at him and nodded. It was definitely funny.

But then suddenly Dean's face paled and he dropped his head. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice tired again.

Sam sighed, feeling his heart sink. You started it, he wanted to say. I thought we were getting somewhere good.

"Because I'm your brother," he replied instead, fingering the paperclip in his hand into position.

Despite the frustration gripping his chest, Sam reminded himself that the situation wasn't nearly as bad as he feared it would be. So far, he hadn't had to jump straight into a fight and save his brother from the clutches of an evil madman. This monster of the week wasn't even home.

Hell, if Sam hurried, maybe they could avoid the shapeshifter altogether - or at least hold off the confrontation until later. And God, that would be such a relief. All he had to do was pick the lock and get Dean outside and Sam could somehow prove he was his brother.

In fact, all he needed was show Dean his bags in the car, or even call Elizabeth.

With a start, Sam felt his pockets, but then he remembered he'd shoved his cell phone into one of his bags because the batteries were dead. "Hey, you have your cell phone?" he asked. "Call Lt. Stevens, she'll tell you."

Dean's answer was quick and annoyed. "You took it, remember?"

Sam groaned to himself. He should have figured. Wasting no more time, he angled the metal cuff and slid the paperclip into the lock. He wasn't as quick or as experienced as Dean, but even so, Dean would be free in no time. Even if he heard the shapeshifter come home that very instant, he could have the lock picked before George ever made it down to the basement.

As Sam fiddled with the handcuffs, he was aware of the gun pointed at his side - but it wasn't a problem for him. As long as he remained calm and steady, Dean wouldn't shoot. And after a lifetime of intense situations, Sam knew how to stay focused under pressure.

Yet, for some infuriating reason, he was still having trouble with the lock. His hands weren't shaking, but he couldn't get enough control for the precision he needed. Sam took in a deep breath and tried again. As much as he wanted to hurry, he told himself there was no immediate need to rush.

But he was distracted, and it took him a few minutes to realize why. His ears heard it before his mind could process it as something more than just background noise. The dog, Sandy, had started barking again.

And as soon as Sam heard it, he couldn't ignore it. The sound was muffled, distant, but it vibrated through his skull, and he kept finding his hands stopping mid-action, and he had to concentrate to force them back to work.

"Getting nervous there, Georgie?" Dean taunted.

Sam barely heard him over the snarling, barking dog. The dog had gone insane, he realized, and it was taking him with it. The noise pierced through his eardrums straight into his brain, and his hands jerked with each bark, making it impossible to work the locking mechanism.

"That goddamn dog," he cursed to himself as he forced his hands steady. He just wanted to get out of there, it was that simple. But the barking refused to stop stabbing him in his ears.

Sam's hands dropped away from the handcuffs and he stalked out of the tiny room, over to the window that hung on the opposite wall. The barking grew clearer the closer he walked towards the sound, and he could hear how it was growing more and more harsh. Sandy was barking so ferociously, it sounded as if he was about to choke on his own throat. And when Sam finally saw the dog through the window, he realized Sandy was straining so hard against his leash that he was slowly strangling himself.

But instead of yapping at a neighbor or passerby, the dog was straining towards his own house. Sam followed the dog's direction just in time to see a man slip through the front door.

Sam gasped, jumping in alarm. "Alice!"

"Who's Alice?" Dean asked from his position back behind him. But Sam's mind was running too quickly for him to catch the question.

The way the dog was acting, that man had to have been George – but rather than coming home, he went into his neighbors' house instead. Which meant Sam had enough time to unlock Dean and get out of there before being discovered.

Even as he was thinking, Sam turned around and quickly dashed back towards Dean. "Dammit!" he shouted angrily as he hurried into the side room where Dean was held. He didn't want this.

Back in St. Louis, when the shapeshifter went after Rebecca, every second of delay meant one more second of torture Rebecca had to endure. If they had waited any longer to call the police, she could have been killed. If Dean had arrived any later, Sam would have had the life choked out of him.

Sam couldn't hesitate now, either.

During a fair fight, the two Winchesters were almost evenly matched. But it wasn't a fair fight, and Sam, with two healthy arms and a moment of surprise, took the gun away from Dean within seconds.

In exchange, he immediately shoved the paperclip into his hand. Dean, after all, had always been faster at picking locks. "Next door!" Sam told him just before racing away.

"Hey!" Dean shouted at his back as Sam pounded up the stairs, two at a time. "You stay away from her! Or I'll--" But Sam was already too far away to hear the rest of his threat. The hunt was here.

Gee, a Winchester holding another Winchester at gunpoint? What are the odds?

Please review!

I'm hoping the next chapters will explain most everything, but if anything is unclear or confusing, just let me know.