AN: It's nice to see some comments! I know the story wasn't initially showing up on the site at all, so I have no idea why it suddenly did, but I'm glad. This chapter is mostly talking, because I'm all about the brotherly moments right now. And I got to quote both Sherlock Holmes (his explanation of Occam's Razor) and my most favorite book of all time: Cry, the Beloved Country, so I'm a happy camper right now. Of course, I'm going to watch the brand new ep in a little bit, so I may be crying after that!

Lena: I promise schmoop and happiness later in the story! I'm a sucker for it. And I know I have several bunnies from you that require attention (Ben Lisa, plus several expansions from Whumptober) and I haven't forgotten. Just be patient.

scootersmom: I couldn't even see it on the website…weird. I'm so glad you're reading and liking it so far!

Sam woke up as Dean was unlocking his handcuffs. "Easy, easy. Just getting you loose. We're here."

Sam looked more than a little disoriented, but nodded, rubbed his wrists, and got carefully out of the car. Dean gave him a moment to look warily around the garage. He was really hoping that the familiar surroundings would jog Sam's memory. But if anything, the more he saw, the more freaked out Sam got. It was a calm freaked out – a slight uptick in breathing rate, subtly widened eyes – but freaked out just the same. Dean glanced back as they walked into the hub and saw just how truly freaked Sam really was by the size of his pupils.

"This is…this is some full-on Misery level weirdness you have going on here," Sam said harshly, just above a whisper. "This whole place is…is exactly like the game…" He was so shaken Dean reached out a hand to physically steady him, but Sam flinched heavily back.

Dean took a breath. He was tired and frustrated, but Sam needed time. "What do you do for a living?"

"Like you don't know," snapped Sam.

"Humor me." Dean heard more than a little John Winchester in his voice. He deliberately softened it. "Sit down. I'll get you a beer. Tell me about what you do." He was losing Sam. He could see it. Sam was looking at him like Dean was a dangerous mental patient, not to mention he was mapping the exits.

Then, with a sigh, Sam sat, the I'll humor him until I can get away obvious to Dean's discerning eyes. "Have any scotch?"

"Actually, I think this calls for some of the Macallan we've been saving." Sam's eyebrows went up just a hint as Dean pulled it out and poured them each a couple fingers worth. It was Sam's favorite, but Dean didn't comment on it. He just took the seat opposite Sam and waited until they'd drunk and he'd refilled both glasses. "Okay, tell me about what you do."

Sam pulled a minor bitchface, but then switched back to his humor the mad man face. "I – Robin and I – design video games for a living. We're pioneers in VR."

"What's VR?"

"Don't – " Sam sighed and drained the glass. "Virtual reality. You know: you wear the headset, maybe even have the gloves, and it looks like you're actually in the game, fighting actual monsters or Nazis or whatever?"

Realization hit. "Oooooh, clever," muttered Dean to himself. If Robin had covered up every memory Sam had of fighting supernatural creatures, how many memories would Sam have left, really? It seemed like the creature had altered any memories that didn't fit into a world without real monsters. "And the bunker matches…"

"The setting of one of our most popular games."

Well, no wonder why Sam was looking at him like that. "And you think I…built this entire place based on your game?" Dean couldn't help but chuckle. "That would be a seriously devoted fan. Like Becky level. Want the tour? Want to see just how big this place is? And how old everything appears, and then tell me again how possible that is?"

"What's the other option?" Sam wanted to know. "That we somehow magically knew about this place when we were making our first game ten years ago?"

"Occam's Razor," sighed Dean, thinking that Sam in his right mind would be impressed that Dean had remembered. Just two days before Sam had explained the concept while trying to make Dean understand how he'd figured out what they were hunting.

"Occam's razor," Sam had said, like that explained anything.

"Never heard of it."

"The precept that when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

"You are such a geek boy."

"You are just jealous."

What Dean wouldn't give for that simple camaraderie right now. "Exactly," responded Sam, as if that were the final word on the matter.

Dean really wanted another drink, because Macallen, but didn't think Sam should have any more, given his already grayish pallor. "Let's try something else." He put the bottle away to remove temptation. "Have you ever been in trouble with the law? Or were you a bad kid?"

Sam looked offended. "No."

Dean snapped a handcuff on Sam's left wrist, leaving the other end dangling, and dropped a paperclip onto the table in front of him. "Get that off."

"How would I even know how to do that…?"

"Just try." Dean sat again. "Muscle memory. I promise you can get 'em off." Sam's look could have curdled milk, but Dean just leaned back. "I don't have a key, and I'm not getting it off for you."

Sam began to look at the exit again, but he picked up the paper clip. "What's that noise?" he demanded, as Cas, out of sight, did what he and Dean had discussed by phone while Sam slept. Sam didn't seem to notice that he'd bent the paperclip open.

"Mice in the walls," offered Dean blithely. "Don't think too much about what you're doing. Just do it."

"If I do it, think I can call a cab?" Sam wanted to know. Then he looked down in astonishment as the cuff came open.

Instead of responding, Dean put his Taurus (not loaded) on the table. "Field strip that," he ordered. "Last I heard, your record is 48 seconds. The magazine's out, so check the chamber." He added the last when Sam looked at him blankly. And again, Sam's hands did what his mind said he shouldn't know.

"What are you doing? What's your end game here?" Sam demanded, pushing the gun away from him, and only someone who knew him well would have seen the fear under the anger. But this was Dean, the one who'd taught him to subsume fear under something, anything, else.

Dean pulled out his wallet as he answered, determined to pound the walls of Sam's disbelief relentlessly. "You're a logical guy. I'm appealing to your logic to prove to you that someone's messing with your head." You're also a very emotional guy, but your emotions are already halfway there. If I get you to start believing, logically, you'll know who I am. And who you are.

Dean slapped a picture from his wallet onto the table. On it, Sam and Dean of at least 10 years ago leaned against the Impala's hood, turned slightly toward each other and laughing. "That's the car we came here in," he informed Sam, stabbing at the worn picture with one finger. "Bobby took this picture. It's at the salvage yard."

Sam looked away as if he couldn't stand to look at the picture. "I have more," said Dean. "Remember when we were staying with Bobby and found the hose and made a mud puddle? Then we took our shirts off and smeared the mud all over ourselves so we could be Indian warriors or something?" Dean came around the table, deliberately coming into Sam's space. "Or how about this? What monsters do you remember fighting? Do you remember when the poltergeist threw you down the stairs in that hideous bed and breakfast that had purple walls?"

Dean kept advancing, and Sam had backed his chair as far as he could, but he nodded fractionally. "Do you remember breaking your ankle? Remember the pain? Are your games so advanced that you'd feel that? Remember what it felt like when you went to Hell? When I did? When Lucifer –"

Sam burst to his feet. "Stop! Just stop! What are you trying to do?" His tone was desperate, angry and pleading at the same time. He was watching Dean dismantle his life, but Dean knew that Sam could rebuild again from the ashes better than anyone else he'd ever known.

So Dean didn't stop. "What am I trying to do? I'm bringing you back home. Because I know you better than you know yourself, Sammy. I know you like onions on your burgers, but you don't want them overcooked. I know vanilla still makes you think of Jessica. I know that you still tug on your hair when you have a nightmare, and I know that you carried your copy Cry, the Beloved Country across most of the U.S. and when it burned up in your apartment, you bought a new copy you still have even though it's falling apart. And that you highlighted the quote, 'I have learned that kindness and love can pay for pain and suffering.' But you don't believe you can make up for – "

Sam grabbed the front of Dean's shirt, and feeling crappy or not, pulled the other man until they were eye to eye. "Shut up!"

But Dean didn't fight him. Instead, he grabbed two handfuls of Sam's shirt too, pulling them even closer together, until they were just inches apart. "We've been here before, haven't we? Sparring. Or fighting. Or angry. Or scared. Trying to hold on to the only thing that's certain." Sam tried to push Dean away now, but Dean didn't let him. Instead, he lightly shook him. "After you pulled me back, when you would have let me kill you, when you got that damn Mark off my arm, you think that I'm going to let you go now?"

Sam just stared, until Cas, with his impeccably dreadful timing, cleared his throat. Dean let go of Sam and let him step back. "This is our friend, Cas."

The angel held out a hand, and Sam shook it automatically, visibly steeling himself and shoring up his composure. After all, he'd just endured a two-pronged assault on his reality. His eyes were pinched in the corners again, and Dean could tell he was in physical pain on top of it all.

Cas didn't let go of Sam's hand, even when the taller man tugged at it a few times, then pulled harder. Cas ignored his efforts completely, staring intently into Sam's eyes. "Yes, his memories have been tampered with," he confirmed to Dean. "I believe I can help." To Sam his said, "You should sit."

But they'd apparently pushed Sam beyond his tolerance. "No. More. I'm going home." He pulled at his hand again, but Cas, even weakened by the aftereffects of Rowena's spell, was still an angel and didn't let go.

"I will not hurt you. I will just assist you to regain your hidden memories," said the angel.

Dean saw the punch coming, but didn't bother to stop it. Though internally, he winced in sympathy. Punching an angel felt like punching a concrete block, and was just about as effective. Dean would bet money Sam had broken his hand.

"Sit. And don't fight," said Cas, both gentle and commanding, still holding Sam's right hand. "It will only take a moment. Let me heal your hand first." He let go of Sam's right hand, and touched his left, the injured appendage glowing blue for a second.

Sam half staggered back, staring at the healed hand, apparently at his limit for belief. Dean used the motion to grab his brother's shoulders and pull him down into the closest chair. And he didn't remove his hands. "You'll be okay in just a minute, Sammy." Sam went to surge forward, but Cas was already there, putting his hands on Sam's head.

Sam and Cas both froze, looking inward. Dean held his breath. It felt like it lasted hours, but in reality was only a few minutes.

Cas stepped back and leaned a hand on the table. Sam slumped forward in the chair, holding his chest and breathing heavily. Dean looked back and forth between them, not knowing who to help. "Cas?"

Cas looked up, his expression stricken. "His memories haven't been tampered with or covered, Dean. They've been removed. Scooped out, leaving a wound behind. There's no way to retrieve them, since they're simply not there. And if he tries too hard to remember, he'll die."