A/N: I'm going to preface this with saying I had to do some guesswork about where a certain character goes. I'll put more details in the ending A/N, but for now take what happens with a grain of salt. It won't be totally accurate but I added what I thought could progress the story without being glaringly "oh well this is totally unrealistic but it's for the story so here it is."

The nausea and headaches were back but Sam swallowed back the pain in an effort to begin his penance. He wanted a hit more than anything but he wouldn't give in, not this time, never again. The thought of telling a nurse his shoulder hurt or he was in pain occurred to him, followed by the rational thoughts that would soon fade; the thoughts that said they know you overdosed. You can't trick them.

He pushed his skull deeper into his pillow and waited desperately for Dean to come back for his daily visit. He could use a distraction and he needed to talk to his brother more, to check that he wasn't mad at him. He felt terrible about what happened and needed to know Dean still loved him.

"Not looking so hot, Sammy."

Sam turned his head to the door where Dean was waiting. "H-hey, Dean."

Dean stepped up to the bed and looked over his sickly brother with concerned eyes. "Feeling sick?"

"Yeah," Sam admitted. "But I'll be f-fine."

The answer came as a surprise. Dean could see the withdrawal setting in again but he expected Sam to act like before—to bitch out, to try to escape, to act like he was dying or like Dean was the devil because it was obviously Dean's fault he's in pain.

But instead he saw his brother soldiering through. He saw the wetness in Sam's eyes that wasn't from pain. He saw the way Sam kept looking up with childlike eyes and looking away like he was embarrassed.

"What's up with you?"

Sam tried to furrow his eyebrows against the headache. "What?"

Dean rolled his eyes and took a seat. "Come on, man. You've been against me since I took you from Ruby's and now you're—you're—'fine?' You should be pissed you're in withdrawal and you should be pissed I'm even in the same room—the same hospital room—as you! Why are you acting like the old Sam? Why aren't you freaking out?"

There was a pause. The wetness built up before spilling down Sam's cheek. He sniffled and looked away at the wall to collect himself. "Because I meant what I said the other day, Dean… I'm sorry. A-and I'm not going to put you through more shit because I fucked up."

It felt as if icicles were digging into Dean's chest. "Sammy—"

"It's my fault I'm here. I did pills, I ran back to Ruby, I stole and wrecked Bobby's car. A-and it shouldn't have taken me until I nearly died to see what a dick I've been."

Another silence fell upon the room as Dean took in the change of his brother. Sam sniffled again and awkwardly wiped at his nose with his cast-covered hand.

"I want to get better… I want to be your brother again, not—not some drug addict you have to lock away because I lost your trust." Sam looked down to his lap and focused on his breathing before dropping the bombshell. "When I'm discharged… I want to g-go to rehab."

Dean's head shot up and he stared at his brother with wide eyes. "Sammy, are you serious?"

Sam nodded solemnly. "It terrifies me, Dean… but I don't want to OD again… I don't want to make you and Bobby worried sick while I'm passed out with a tube down my throat." His voice was broken and hoarse, each word cracked and sounded like defeat.

Dean wasn't a touchy-feely person, which is why it came as such a surprise when he got up from his seat and wrapped his arms around his brother. Sam did his best to reciprocate the hug and let his head fall into the crook of Dean's neck.

"I'm proud of you, Sammy."

Sam sobbed and held on tighter. He was scared and craved his brother's warmth to make him feel safe again. He didn't want to go to a rehab center but he knew he needed to. Every logical part of his mind knew he would keep going back to Oxy and Ruby if he didn't get his head squared away. He had to make this decision while he still had some clarity, before the withdrawal said otherwise.

"I'm fucked up," he accidentally said out loud.

Dean held him tighter but said nothing. In his mind he told himself, I know.

The withdrawal was in full-swing by the time Dean was checking Sam into the rehab center. It was hard for Sam to part with his brother when a doctor came by to whisk him away for examinations.

"He's in good hands, Mr. Winchester," the dark-haired man said. "We'll keep you updated on his progress. He'll be allowed to call you once we deem him well enough."

Dean nodded against the tightness in his throat. He finished signing a few forms at the front desk before waving to Sam and leaving the building. It was a difficult day for everyone, leaving Dean worried sick like a mother sending her child to summer camp.

He met Bobby in the parking lot and got in the passenger seat. The older man patted his shoulder before starting the pickup and leaving the building behind.

The man took Sam away to check his body over in a white room. He tried to tell Sam what he was doing and why but it flew over the man's rattled head. The withdrawals were starting to get to him and Dr. Novak could see it plain as day.

"Sam, I need to know what drugs you were on before your hospital stay."

He had to repeat himself before Sam snapped out of his haze and said, "O-oxy… I thi-think K."

Dr. Novak took note of that and moved on to a more personal assessment, asking questions about Sam's state of mind and feelings. It was hard to stay focused but Sam powered through with the mentality of Dean would be strong, I can be strong.

"Let's get back to the physical," Dr. Novak interrupted upon seeing a rather harsh shiver work its way through Sam. "Have you been in withdrawal before?"

"Yeah," he replied, arms wrapping around himself. He was ashamed to be seen in such a vulnerable, self-inflicted state by a total stranger. Sam struggled to keep even the slightest amount of eye-contact.

"What was your past experience like? Can you tell me what symptoms you felt?"

The doctor waited patiently for Sam to gather his thoughts. "Hot and cold… headache, stomachache, sick," he weakly replied.

Dr. Novak nodded. "How do you feel now?"

"Cold. Head… sick."

The doctor decided he knew enough and helped Sam to stand up, grabbing his right arm (having been warned by Dean that the left arm would be sore at the shoulder). They slowly made their way through halls, taking breaks for Sam to take deep breaths, finding Sam's room at the end.

It was plain with a bed that would prove to be difficult on such a tall patient. There was a small dresser where Sam's clothes had already been placed. The doctor helped Sam to sit on the bed and saw the sweat beading on the patient's skin.

He left to retrieve some medicine to help ease the withdrawal process for Sam and waited in the room as the man took the medicine and curled up on the bed.

His stomach was hurting and all Sam could do was hold it tightly and dig himself into his small bed. His doctor, who he learned to be named Castiel, had stayed by his side to watch over him. Sam found that talking through it eased the suffering, though slightly.

"H-how long do you think I'll be here?"

Castiel tilted his head. "That's hard to say. You could be out in a month or so."

"That's a long t—" Sam hissed at a new pain. "—time."

"Not so much," Castiel replied. "Some people are here much longer. You're here by your own will. You want to make a change and I trust you won't be back once you're out."

Sam winced and got ready for the hot flash to come back. He could feel it coming on.

Castiel had told him before that once he was able to, he'd be attending group therapy sessions. He wasn't at all looking forward to it but understood he could gain something beneficial to aid him in staying clean. For now, however, he'd been in his room and suffering for the next couple days.

"C-Cas," he stuttered out, using the nickname to lessen his time wasted speaking. "I'm gonna get sick."

Sam was helped up by the gentle yet firm hands of his doctor and they both rushed to the bathroom for the next round of dry-heaving and stomach cramps.

Before the trip to the rehabilitation center, Garth had already set out to meet up with Rufus to further discuss their plans. Bobby had made it very clear that they needed to solve the Crowley problem because, if it was left up to Bobby or Dean, it would quickly turn into a homicide investigation.

That is, if they ever found the body.

Calling in Garth and Rufus was Bobby's best chance at self-preservation. Now that Sam was in rehab for the next month or so, Bobby would need to be sure Dean was too busy to try to exact revenge on Crowley himself. And if Bobby knew Dean, it would take round-the-clock work to keep him from beating the man to death.

Dean hadn't been suspicious when Bobby began giving him longer hours, asking him to come in on weekends, and giving him more difficult jobs. It did, however, annoy the elder Winchester when he realized he didn't have a second of free time. As soon as he got home he was bombarded by surprise visits by Charlie or Bobby claiming he left something behind at the shop.

There was the constant checking in and inquiring about his day. It got to Dean and he snapped about two weeks into the separation from Sam.

It was a busy Saturday at the shop and Dean had spent the past hour under a car that should have been traded in for scrap metal years ago. His back ached, his neck was stiff, and his hands were dirty and sticky. Dean was more than ready for his lunch break and pulled himself out from under the car, immediately met with the face of Bobby.

"Jesus, Bobby! You're about to give me a freaking heart attack!"

Bobby wasn't bothered by the outburst and rolled his eyes. "You're as jumpy as a mystery-solving dog sometimes."

"Are you calling me Scooby Doo?"

"That's his name?"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Scooby Doo is a classic. How do you not know his name? It's the name of the show!"

The distraction eased some of Bobby's worries. Sam had at least another two weeks to go and he needed to be positive Dean wasn't going to strike.

"What's up with you lately?"

This caught Bobby off guard. "What're you talking about, boy?"

Dean scoffed and brushed past Bobby on his way to the sinks to clean his grubby hands. "You've been up my ass since the hospital. What's your deal? You think I'm gonna do the same thing Sammy did?"

The notion hurt to hear: that Dean really thought Bobby would think he'd sink that low. "No, you idjit. You're not your brother."

"Yeah… Sammy would have killed that son of a bitch by now." He turned from the sink and swiped his hands on his pants, barely focusing on Bobby as he spoke. "But hey, it's hard to murder a notorious drug dealer when you're under constant surveillance."

The temperature dropped and a chill ran through Bobby at the cold, dead words Dean spoke. He said it like it was nothing, like it was normal, like he made peace with the idea he would murder someone.

All sound left the older man's throat and Dean turned away to walk out of the shop.

"Are you ready for group?"

Sam lifted his head from the flat pillow to eye his doctor. Withdrawals had officially ended, he had been fed properly to make up for some of the weight he lost when the pills made him feel sick, and he was getting into a better headspace. Castiel—who didn't like how comfortable his patients were with calling him by his first name—had given him time to adjust before being thrown into another new experience.

Sam had been attending the group therapy since the withdrawals ended the week before. He was still anxious about being near so many people and talking about himself. There was a shame he couldn't get over no matter how many times Castiel would say he has nothing to feel bad about, everyone there did the same thing.

Often Castiel reminded him he was one of the only people there because he wanted to get help—that many people were there because their families made them, or it was a part of a court order after drug charges or jail time. It didn't help.

"Are you still hesitant about the group, Sam?"

With a small huff, Sam sat up and shook his messy hair from his face. "A little."

"Why is that?"

Great, extra therapy, Sam thought. "I know it's all a part of getting better, talking about it, but it's so humiliating." A blush spread across his cheeks and he diverted his eyes to the wall. "I haven't even had to say why I started… I—Dean says abuse is abuse, it doesn't matter I'm a man and she was a woman, but—come on. That sounds so bad…"

Castiel stayed by the door and watched Sam fidget and play with the hem of his shirt. "This is a safe environment, Sam, and you need to come to terms with what's happened."

"Yeah, I have, I'm in rehab for a reason."

"That's not what I mean."

Sam looked up to see his doctor walking into the room and taking a seat in the chair by his bed, the one the man stayed in while Sam writhed in withdrawal upon arrival.

"Sam, you may accept that you have a problem with drugs, and you may understand that it's changed you and made you act regrettably to your family. Whenever you've spoken here you avoid talking about the abuse. You've mentioned it, vaguely, that your ex-girlfriend hurt you, but you get shy whenever we get close to speaking about it."

Sam's throat felt tight.

"You need to accept that you were being abused and not shove it to the back of your mind."

The patient nodded but looked down. "I know I was abused."

"You will only go back to doing drugs if you cannot come to terms with this—it's not just words, it's more than the sentence 'I was abused.' There are feelings and fears you need to address. Sam, why is it that you struggle to speak more than those three words about it?"

He sniffled a bit and kept his head down. Sam felt cornered; he came here to get clean, not to talk about how Ruby used to—how she— "Can we go?"

Castiel heard the stiffness in Sam's voice and decided not to push it. They got up and walked to the group session without a word.

The nightmares returned that night. Sam woke up in a sweat, heart racing, feeling on edge yet struggling to remember what he dreamt about. He ran a shaking hand through his hair and laid back down, staring at the dull ceiling as the dream came back in pieces.

The acidic bile rising in his throat, burning and bringing the need to cough. The walls swam and the room around him was made of smoke.

Across the room was Ruby, angry as ever, screaming at Sam, throwing an endless amount of dishware at him. Each item barely missed his head, smashing just to the left.

"How did you get fucking fired? You were just a bagboy and now do you know what you are? You're pathetic!"

He took an unsteady breath. It was less of a dream and more of a memory. He had worked so hard to block out the first time.

A/N: I've never been to any kind of rehab center, so I'm not going to be too detailed about what Sam experiences there. Most of my research led me to pages advertising certain facilities with popups asking if I had a drug problem. I also don't know if, realistically, he would suffer withdrawal after the drugs he was given to lessen the symptoms. He must suffer for my art.

Doctors probably won't be as personal as I'm making Castiel, but I won't make it painful to read.

Bonus for my fellow Sam Sadists, he's really gonna suffer next chapter.