A/N: Thanks for all the initial interest! Again, this fic deals heavily with drug addiction. Please recognize that much of the detail is from personal experience and much of it is research. Because we're dealing with fiction, I'm also making some stuff up to fit the SPN 'verse. If there are any questions or you need clarification about a certain fact or detail, please don't hesitate to ask in a review or PM me!

We were tight knit boys,
Brothers in more than name.
You would kill for me,
And knew that I'd do the same.
"Always Gold" –Radical Face

Dean couldn't sleep that night, although it was true that he hardly slept on a normal night and tonight was anything but normal. The guest room only had a futon for a bed, which was like sleeping on the floor, only worse. Somehow it was too lumpy but prodded him in all the wrong parts at the same time, leaving him a grumbling mess as he tossed and turned under the sheet. Eventually, he got up and padded down the hallway in his socks, opening Lucy's door a crack to make sure the child was okay. He might not have Sam's paternal instinct but the compulsion to make sure everyone in the house was one hundred percent; it came from the long engraved memory of waking up in random motel rooms to make sure Sammy was asleep, that the door was locked and his shotgun loaded under the bed.

The couch in the living room was far more comfortable than the futon and Dean had worked enough television sets in his lifetime to easily figure out the remote. It was two in the morning so there was nothing good on and Dean had to settle on a soap opera, muting it and leaning back against the cushions. He'd brought a beer with him from the kitchen but it sat untouched on the coffee table next to where Dean's feet rested.

He fell asleep watching a family run out of a burning building.

It wasn't noise that woke him in the morning but a smell. The greasy, fat-ridden smell of bacon floated out of the kitchen and assaulted his senses with the force of a silver bullet.

"Good morning," Sarah said when he entered the kitchen. "There's a plate for you in the oven."

"Thanks," Dean mumbled, not totally on board with talking before he had a cup of coffee.

"I sent Lucy to a friend's house," Sarah continued, wiping the counter's down. "She can spend the night there if she needs to." Dean grunted around the half a piece of toast he had just shoved in his mouth. He reached across the table to drag his knife through the butter and then slapped it on the remaining bread.

"Sam called." His gaze snapped upward, jaw caught in mid-chew. He swallowed, almost choking.

"When?" Sarah threw the sponge in the sink and leaned against the counter, arms folded across her chest.

"About an hour ago. They must have taken him off the sedatives, he sounded pretty clear to me." There was a bitterness in the way she was talking and Dean put down his fork with only half the eggs gone.

"What'd he say?"

"That he wants to come home today."

"That's great."

"And he wants you to come get him. Only you."

"Oh." Another woman might have looked away but Sarah held his gaze as strongly as any Hunter and it was Dean who ended up breaking eye contact, picking his fork back up and pushing the food around on his plate, unsure of what to say.

"Dean, what are you two planning?"

"What? Nothing!"

"I don't believe you." Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes but barely.

"Seriously, Sarah? I want him to get better as much as you do. I'm not going to do anything to sacrifice that." Dean swallowed but forced himself to continue, knowing what Sarah needed to hear. "Sam needs to come home to you and Lucy." She dropped into the seat across from him and started playing with a stray napkin, pulling it to pieces.

"I can't do this."

"Yes, you can," Dean said.

"Dean, he's so out of control. I don't know what's wrong with him. You haven't been around, you don't know…" She shrugged and now refused to look at him. "I knew something was wrong but I didn't know it was this. I should have called you a long time ago, but I thought I could fix it by myself."

"We're going to figure it out, okay?" Dean said. Sarah glanced down at the table, the napkin laid in tatters between her hands. "Listen," Dean said. "I'm not gonna just leave you with him. I'll stick around as long as you need me."

"You don't have to do that," Sarah said. "I'm not trying to trap you here. I know we're not really your idea of fun."

"You're family," Dean said firmly, trying to sound as sincere as he felt. Sure, he was here mostly for Sam but he liked Sarah well enough that he would help her out if he could. If Sam was using again – and all signs pointed that way – then it was going to be hard for everyone involved; he wouldn't let her handle that by herself. She couldn't do it by herself. Hell, he'd tried that and barely held on.

"Thanks," she said, rubbing at her eyes. "You'll go get him, talk to the doctor and I'll stay here and go through the house, try to find his stash."

"Are you sure?"

"No. But I trust you, Dean. Especially with Sam. Find out everything you can from the doctor and tell me later."

"Sarah, he's not-,"

"Don't," she said, standing and sweeping the napkin pieces off the table. "Don't make excuses for him right now. He doesn't deserve it."

"Okay," Dean said. "If you're sure."

"Don't ask me that again," she said, walking away. "Or I might change my mind."

xxx

This time, he remembered to leave the knife in the Impala and got through to the ward with no problem. A different nurse than yesterday met him at the double door, grimacing when he said Sam's name.

"He's in the bathroom," she said. "The withdrawal symptoms finally hit last night, just before dinner." They bypassed Sam's room and headed to a half open door where an orderly was standing guard.

"His brother," the nurse announced over the sound of retching. The orderly nodded at Dean without a word.

Dean pushed the door all the way open to reveal a sterile, hospital bathroom with Sam kneeling in the center. His white t-shirt – probably the same one from yesterday – was damp with sweat and sticking to his skin, molded around the muscles that were clearly defined when Sam leaned forward and dry-heaved into the toilet. He growled out a sentence as Dean took a step closer.

"I said get out." The words were raspy and choked but full of a venom Dean barely recognized.

"Whoa, it's just me," Dean said, holding up his hands. Sam's head whipped around, lips shiny with spit, matching the heavy sheen coating his face. His whole body sagged when he saw his brother.

"Dean?" As if that one word held permission, – and maybe it did – Dean covered the space between them in a few short strides. He squatted down beside Sam, trying not to cringe at the overpowering smell of vomit.

"Not feeling so hot?" Sam gave a laugh that sounded more like a bark. He then groaned and rocked back on his heels, wiping his bangs away from his forehead.

"You can say that again."

"Well, we knew it was going to be bad," Dean said. He didn't know what else to say because Sam had been through this before, more than once, and it was miserable every time. After the demon blood withdrawal had almost killed him, Dean thought the worst was behind them. But then the pills had showed up and Sam's addictive personality came out to play once again.

Sam didn't answer, just launched forward and gagged into the toilet while Dean steadied him with a hand around Sam's bicep, another hovering over his back in case he needed extra support.

"Supposed to meet…with the doctor," Sam panted, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

"Alright. You think you're done?" Sam grimaced.

"For now." He kept his bloodshot eyes turned downward as they followed the nurse to an empty office across the ward.

"You aren't allowed to come in," she told Dean when he went to follow Sam into the room. He reared back as if slapped.

"What?"

"This is confidential," she said. "But we can come get you as soon as we're done."

"I'm staying," Dean said. Sam flopped into a chair and appeared not to be listening. The nurse was continuing her protestations when the doctor walked up: a tall, thick man with a black beard and plastic-framed glasses.

"I'm Dr. Morey, can I help you?"

"Dean Winchester," he said, shaking the doctor's hand.

"Sam's brother," Dr. Morey said, nodding and noticing the younger Winchester waiting in the office. "He told me about you the day he came in."

"I'd liked to sit in," Dean said.

"That's up to Sam," Dr. Morey said, beckoning Dean into the room and seating himself behind the desk.

"Sam, is it okay if Dean is in the meeting with us?" Dean expected an immediate yes but Sam glanced over at him, sucking on his lower lip in thought.

"What are we meeting about?"

"We'll talk about your future, where you go from here. Make a plan."

"I guess he can stay," Sam said. "I don't care." The nurse stepped inside and shut the door as Dean gave her a smug look and sat down beside Sam.

"Okay, Sam," Dr. Morey said, opening up Sam's file. "As you know, we can't hold you for over forty-eight hours without your consent."

"I want to go home." The venom had returned and Dean looked over in surprise. Not that Sam was passive in any aspect of the word but most of the time he was at least calm.

"Sam, let's not make hasty decisions," Dr. Morey said, not looking surprised at all by Sam's tone. In fact, he looked like he rather expected it.

"I'm going home. You just said you can't keep me here!"

"Please lower your voice. I only want to explore your options." Sam glared at him and curled his fingers around the armrests on his chair, his knuckles turning white.

"What are the options, doc?" Dean cut in only to prevent an increasingly agitated Sam from leaping across the desk and strangling the man.

"One, you can stay here for a little longer, which I know you don't want to do. Or, I can also refer you to a rehab center. There are a few excellent facilities in the area and I think you would benefit tremendously from being in a strict program."

"Or I can go home," Sam reminded him flatly.

"Yes." Dr. Morey was reluctant to go on, "But given your past history…"

"I choose going home," Sam said, starting to rise. Dean held him back.

"Hey, whoa! Let's just talk for a sec," Dean said. "The doctor might have a good idea."

"Sam, you overdosed," Dr. Morey said and Sam flinched at the word. "You have a problem no matter what choice you make. You have to face the facts."

"I don't have a problem," Sam snapped. "I can stop whenever I want to."

"Is that what happened last time?" Dr. Morey countered. Dean was about to intervene, to make a suggestion of his own when Sam stood up, sending his chair scraping across the floor.

"You don't know anything about me!" Sam said. "I just met you, why do you get to tell me what to do with my life?" While he was talking, the nurse came up and laid a hand on Sam's shoulder. It was a harmless gesture, maybe even one of compassion, but to an ex-Hunter, it was a death blow. Sam's left hand came up automatically and before Dean could do more than stand, Sam had the nurse's arm twisted behind her back and she was up against the wall, blood smattering where her nose connected with plaster.

There was a high-pitched yelp and then an alarm was sounding and Dean was pulling at Sam, trying to relax his brother's vise-like hold on the terrified woman.

"Sam! Hey, get the hell off her!" The door crashed open and two orderlies came running in, one prying Dean off his brother while the other held out a syringe toward Sam.

"No, don't!" Dean yelled but it was too late. The needle sank into Sam's outstretched arm. He turned on the orderly then and in doing so, released his grip on the nurse. She slid down the wall, holding her face.

"Sam!" Dean said, rushing to his brother and putting a hand on each arm to steady him as he swayed on the spot, still taking swings at the orderly who had a firm hold on the back of Sam's neck. Dean pried back the man's fingers until they were either going to break or he was going to let go. He chose the latter option and Dean immediately maneuvered his body in between Sam and the rest of the people in the office.

"Sammy?" The sedative was taking effect as Sam's arms dropped to his side.

"Dean? I don't…what?" He swung his gaze around the room as if a weight was attached to it. "Dean?" His tone turned frightened and unsure.

"It's okay," Dean said even though they were the farthest from okay they had been in a long time. Somewhere behind him, Dr. Morey was talking but Dean was focused only on Sam. His brother's muscles were relaxing under his touch and Sam was still confused.

"Dean…"

"It's okay, you're okay."

"'m so heavy," Sam slurred, drooping another inch, brow furrowed.

"Whoa, don't fall, champ. The ground isn't soft, remember?" It was obvious that once again they had injected too much of the tranquilizer; Dean was supporting more and more of Sam's weight.

"Take him back to his room," Dr. Morey said, walking over. It seemed he was both unaffected and unimpressed with the outburst. He took something out of his breast pocket and what Dean thought was a pen was actually a light and he pulled up Sam's eyelids, flashing the light in briefly. Sam's reaction was sluggish but startled all the same.

"Ge' off," he said, pulling away and trying to turn his head into Dean's shoulder.

"I got him, I got him," Dean said, waving off the approaching orderly. He'd carried an almost unconscious Sam countless times before and he was sure he could do it again. "C'mon, buddy," he said lightly, his tone becoming gentler as his attention turned to baby brother. He threw one of Sam's arms around his shoulders, taking most of his weight and letting Sam sink into his body.

"Sam, you gotta help me out," he muttered. "Move your feet, I ain't dragging you." Sam tried to acquiesce and they managed a half drag, half shuffle scenario that got them to the room where Dean could put his brother on the bed.

"D'n, i's fuzzy," Sam mumbled, scrunching his eyes up as Dean arranged the pillows behind his back. Somewhere beneath the stupor of the sedative he was still able to clench tightly to Dean's shirtsleeve, fingers twisted into the fabric as deeply as he was twisted into his brother's life. "I wanna go home," he whined, using the exact same voice that had always tugged at Dean's heart.

"I know, I'm going to get you out of here," Dean said, not sure if that was even possible, but knowing it was probably in his best interest to lie at the moment. "Sammy, let go," he said, having to uncurl Sam's fingers one by one and noting the trembling that was starting to travel through them. He wanted his brother to get help but he also knew that Sam liked to suffer in private and going through the first stages of withdrawal in such a public place was going to do more harm than good for his psyche.

"Thanks," Sam sighed, when Dean covered him with a blanket. He didn't close his eyes but his vision was unfocused as he stared at the wall.

"I'm going go talk to the doctor," Dean said, rising. Sam jolted as if to get out of bed, to follow his brother but Dean shook his head. "Stay put, Sammy," he said. "I'll come back."

"Promise?"

"Of course."

He didn't look behind him but he knew Sam's eyes followed him all the way out the door.

xxx

"Mr. Winchester, your brother is dangerous." Dean sighed and leaned forward in his chair. Like Sam, he was getting tired of strangers making assumptions about them.

"He's not dangerous," Dean said. "He's just uncomfortable around people he doesn't know." The doctor gave an unprofessional snort and took off his glasses to polish them on the lapels of his white coat.

"I don't think you understand. The brother you know is gone. Right now, Sam is only an addict, nothing more." Dean clenched his jaw. That wasn't true; Sammy was under there somewhere.

"I've dealt with him before," he said. "He did this a few years ago, which I'm sure you know about."

"That's what concerns me," Dr. Morey said. "This is his second relapse…"

Third if you counted the demon blood.

"…and he needs professional help."

"I understand," Dean said. "But locking Sam up somewhere doesn't work, trust me. Just let him go home today and let me get him through the worst of the withdrawal. Maybe there's some group he could go to after that."

Dr. Morey eyed the man sitting before him. So many family members of addicts were naïve and innocent, throwing themselves in the path of addiction, and it frustrated him to no end when he inevitably saw them again, weeks or months or years down the line. But Dean Winchester didn't come across as naïve. There was a certain quality about the man, an almost war torn air about him that made Dr. Morey second-guess his court order to hold Sam Winchester in the ward against his will.

"You think you can handle him? You saw how violent he got in here. He broke Cindy's nose, almost dislocated her shoulder."

"I can handle him," Dean said, sitting back. "I know all his tricks, all his moves."

"Okay," Dr. Morey said. "But let me give you a couple pointers. This isn't going to be easy for either one of you."

xxx

Sam was still out of it ninety minutes later when they finally agreed to release him.

"He should wake up tomorrow morning with a clear head. Well, besides the withdrawal symptoms," the discharge nurse said. Two orderlies were standing by just in case but Sam could hardly move himself from bed to wheelchair as Dean once again helped him slip on his shoes. There would be no more fighting, not today.

"What do you think?" Dean said, smiling up at his brother as he tied the laces. "Ready to go home?" Sam gave him a faint smile.

"Yeah." The shaking had increased despite the tranquilizer and Sam hands were jumping in his lap, his shoulders starting to dance along with them as Dean took the wheelchair from one of the orderlies and steered his brother outside the ward, happy to leave behind the stares and sounds of the mentally unstable, glad to remove his brother from an environment that wanted to fit him into a specific slot. Sam wasn't an addict – Dean didn't like that word – but there was definitely something wrong with him. But it wasn't something that could be fixed while sharing a bathroom with someone who ate glue.

Getting Sam in the Impala was a challenge as the tremors grew fiercer paired with a cold sweat that swathed the younger Winchester like a blanket. They almost had to turn right back around when Sam tripped during the two foot transition from wheelchair to passenger seat, his head coming within centimeters of the Impala's metal frame. Dean sucked in a breath as he jerked Sam back just in time, ignoring Sam's unhappy grunt at the movement.

"Just gonna buckle you up," Dean said, leaning into the car and over his brother. When his shirt brushed against Sam's hands, he reached out and grabbed hold and Dean had to spend another two minutes in the uncomfortable position until he could persuade Sam to let go.

Finally, finally, Dean climbed into the driver's seat, breathing out a heavy breath at the amount of exertion those few simple movements had cost. He missed when things used to be simple. Well, simpler than this. When werewolves were easier to handle than fucked up pills that left you a craving mess. And vampires were what you took blows at, not other human beings. He started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, glancing over at Sam as he did so.

His brother's head was resting against the window and his eyes were closed and for a moment, Dean could pretend that they were back in the old days and he actually knew what he was doing.

If only.