so chappy two...lots of craziness ahead...thanks for reading and for the awesome reviews!! bambers;)

Chapter Two

Dean sat in the front seat of the Impala, staring at the motel directly in front of him, wondering if it was the one they were staying at. If he had forgotten the last several months of his life and Sam was trying to help him remember, his younger brother would have come back to this motel. Dean was almost sure of it. Still nagging doubts crept into his mind as he scrubbed his hand across his face and continued to stare at the whitewashed building. Gonna make a freakin' fool outta myself if I go in there an' ask if I've been renting a room here.

"Bo, check your pockets an' see if you have a key to get in that room over there." Dean gestured toward the room to the far right. "An' didn't I already tell ya, no smokin' in my car?" He waved away a plume of gray smoke wafting in his direction, a deep-set scowl forming on his features.

"Why the bloody freakin' hell would I have a key ta a motel room here?" Sam cracked a smile as he deliberately blew more smoke in Dean's face.

"Jus' check your damn pockets." Dean was quickly learning that Bo's favorite word was freakin', and that he said it far more than any normal human being ever possibly should. Holy Mother of God also spewed from his mouth more times than necessary, and the thing where he crossed himself repeatedly when he thought something might be demonic in nature was really starting to get on Dean's last frayed nerve.

While in the hospital waiting to hear about Bobby's condition, and trip to the convenient store afterwards, Dean hadn't seen even the slightest hint of his brother left in the man who sat beside him. His speech was different. Even his eating habits were different, the two candy bars and box of HoHo's he'd bought at the store, and had polished off on the short drive to the motel were a testament to that. But, smoking was the biggie. Bo smoked like the devil himself, barely finishing one before starting on the next, and nothing Dean said to try and stop him from doing it helped the situation. If anything, it only made matters worse as Bo seemed to really love to bug the hell out of him.

Sam patted down the pockets of his blue jeans, and quirked a puzzled brow when he reached in his right front pocket and yanked out a room key. "How the freakin' bloody hell did ya know that I had the key? Ya freakin' psychic or somthin'?"

"Yeah, just call me Criss Angel. I'm a total Mindfreak." Dean rolled his eyes, already at his wit's end, and briefly wondered what he'd put his little brother through in the months that he couldn't remember.

"Thought ya said yer name was Dean, Sparkie."

"Jus' get out of the car," Dean ordered, tired of going over the same useless argument about Sam not calling him Sparkie, and suddenly understood why it bugged the hell out of his brother to be called Sammy when he hated the nickname. Not that Dean would stop calling him that, but at least now he could understand it better. "An' for God sakes jus' shut up for a while, you're makin' my head spin."

Out of the car, they strode to their motel room in complete silence. At the door, Sam took one last drag off his cigarette, dropped it on the ground, and crushed it into the grass with the toe of his shoe. Sam unlocked the door, hesitated for a moment, looking back over his shoulder. He narrowed his sights on something off to the right, and Dean turned to look in the direction his brother was staring at, only to turn around as he heard the motel room door slam shut. From inside the room he could hear Sam laughing, and with a quick turn of the knob, he realized his brother had locked him outside.

"Open the freakin' door, Sammy!" Dean jiggled the handle for a few more seconds before slamming his open palm against the sturdy wooden surface.

"Name's Bo," Sam uttered between laughs, "an' go find yer own freakin' room cause I ain't sharin' with ya." Curling his hand into a fist, Dean pounded on the door repeatedly, but Sam still refused to let him inside. "Not lettin' ya in, so ya might as well go the hell away, Sparkie."

Dean moved over to the window and peered inside, watching as Sam rifled through their duffels, throwing things aside on the floor as he searched for a clean change of clothes. Once his brother had found what he was looking for, he headed to the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

For a minute or two longer, Dean stood at the window staring in stunned silence at the total disarray the room was in. A chair lay on its side in the middle of the room with ropes dangling over it. He glanced down at his wrists, gingerly rubbed the rope burns he found there, and then looked back up at the chair, understanding dawning on him. Sam had tied him up at some point, but Dean couldn't recall when or why his brother would do that.

Shattered pieces of glass were scattered across the floor near the bathroom, and squinting Dean saw spatters of blood on the white walls and more on the carpeting near the broken glass. A shiver of fear swept over him as he balled his hands into fists, and noticed they were bruised and swollen. He then thought of all the bruises on his brother's face that he'd attributed to hunting Ellicott, but now wondered if he'd caused them. I couldn't have beaten Sam up. Could've I?

"What did Bobby say again?" Scrubbing his hand across his face, he then raked his fingers through his hair as he glanced over at the Impala, thinking about the books Bobby had handed to him. "Sam brought me back using those books . . . but brought me back from what? An' why the hell can't I remember the last few months?"

Dean trudged to the Impala, opened the back door and grabbed the books out of the backseat of the car. Your Mind Tricked You to Feel the Pain, by Mildred Pierce. His hands trembled as he silently read the title of the manuscript, and wondered what Bobby had meant when he said the books might help to bring Sam back. What the hell does this have to do with me and Sam?

Slowly his mind began to whirl with confusing thoughts, some of which he was certain were not his own, but were there nonetheless. Murmuring voices stirred and echoed in his ears, speaking of things he didn't understand, and grew louder with each passing second. Tears burned at his eyes as he dropped to his knees, and clutched the sides of his head.

"What's dead should stay dead!" he hollered over and over again until his throat was so hoarse the words came out in no more than a whisper. Tears streamed down his face as he silently continued to mouth the words. His heart clenched painfully every time he spoke them, but still he didn't understand what they meant or why they should cause him so much pain.

The voices trickled away, his mind clearing as the words died on his lips. When he finally glanced up, he saw a bunch of people standing outside their motel room doors staring at him, and felt heat rising to flush his face. The only door that still remained closed was Sam's. Dean's heart sank a little more, knowing that his brother was lost to him. "Ummm . . . sorry about that." He shrugged. "Thought I'd killed a rat, but apparently not . . . so I ummm . . . was yelling that what's dead should stay dead?"

The patrons of the motel returned to their rooms, grumbling and calling Dean names like 'freak', 'nut job' and 'mental case' but as long as they were gone he couldn't care less what they thought of him. He slowly made his way to his feet, and lumbered back to his room. Lock or no lock, Sam wasn't keeping him outside any longer. Dean made quick work of picking the lock, and headed inside. Throwing the books down on the table, he strode to the bathroom door and pounded on it.

"Bo, get your ass out here now," he gruffly ordered, his patience at an end. For a few moments, he waited and listened for any signs that Sam was going to unlock the door and come out, and then heard something that made his heart skip a beat, and then set off at a frantic pace. His brother was crying. "Sam?" he called out, his voice instantly softening.

"D-Dean . . . . th-their in my head," Sam muttered, his voice filling and rising with panic, "an' their so loud . . . an' I can't make them go away . . . need to make them go away."

"Sammy, open the door."

"Can't . . . th-they won't let me . . . say it's my fault . . . s-say I deserve to suffer for what I've done."

"Open the damn door, Sam," Dean ordered, fear making his voice rise an octave as he pounded on the door again.

"Jus' want it to stop . . . an' I can't make it stop."

"You near the door?"

"No . . . they won't let me . . . ."

Dean backed away from where he standing, raised his foot and slammed it into the door full force. The wood around the lock splintered and cracked as the door burst wide open. Dean rushed inside and dropped down beside his brother. Sam was huddled in a tight ball, his arms wrapped around his head, fingers curled around his shaggy hair. His body trembled uncontrollably and as Dean tried to place an arm around his little brother, Sam shrunk away from him as if in fear.

"Sammy," Dean began in a low comforting voice, "it's me, Dean."

"Guhh . . . Oh, God . . . D-Dean," Sam's grip tightened around his hair, "feels . . . feels like they're ripping my mind apart."

"Sam, what did you do?" Dean asked, not knowing how long he would have before Bo returned or Sam got worse. "I need to know what you did to bring me back so I can fix this. Please, ya gotta tell me."

"D-don't know . . . can't remember," Sam lifted his head off his knees, and looked up at Dean. Blood dripped from Sam's nose to stain his flannel shirt, and Dean's heart caught in his throat as he saw that his brother's jeans were smeared with it as well. "Th-there are . . . are so many of them . . . too many voices." Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he banged his head against the wall as he softly moaned. "M-make 'em stop . . . Dean . . . pl-please, make 'em stop."

"Gonna make this right, Sammy," Dean wrapped his arm around Sam's shoulders, and felt his brother stiffen briefly before he began trembling again. "I swear to God, I'm gonna fix this."

Abruptly Sam stilled, his breath catching in his throat, the tears streaming down his face turning crimson. Eyes rolling back into his head, he began to jerk and convulse as Dean clung to him.

"Sam . . . Sammy!" Dean shot to his feet, and hauled Sam up, hooking his around his brother's waist.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

There are things we forget. Things we don't want to remember. Darkness resides in all of us, just begging to be released.

Sam heard the same words over and over inside his mind. First a woman spoke them followed by a man then all the voices inside his head converged, shouting the words. Another darker more sinister voice cut through the din and uttered the words, and Sam shivered involuntarily. He tried to cry out to Dean, but his voice caught in throat, and was lost.

The voices struggled for dominance, the weaker being pushed back to the furthest niches of his mind. His own thoughts swam the violent turbulence, drowning then resurfacing only to be dragged under once more. A virulent sea of memories, not his own, flooded his brain. Hatred, betrayal, loss and murder. Guilt most prevalent, nearly suffocated him.

Dark disturbing images crashed with tidal force over one another, eroding his own thoughts and memories. Like grains of fine sand, his memories scattered, washed away as new memories were formed.

Through the darkness, Sam searched for his brother, his anchor, but found only Dean's unyielding guilt to take solace in. Dean's guilt wrapped firmly around Sam's mind, smothering him.

The other darker voice reemerged, fought with Dean's memories for dominance, and prevailed. Sam inhaled sharply, and his eyes opened suddenly.

"Where the hell am I?" Sam asked as he looked around the room, taking in all the medical equipment.

"Parkside Medical," a young dark-haired nurse replied. "You had some sort of seizure, and your brother brought you in here about an hour ago."

"Don't have a brother." Sam smirked, recalling how he had once had a brother, but had taken care of that little blight on humanity. "Jacob died years ago."

"Jacob?" The nurse raised a brow in confusion. "I'm talking about your brother Dean, Sam."

"Think you got the wrong guy, ma'am. Name's Reeves, an' I gotta tell ya, it doesn't say much for this hospital if ya can't keep yer patients straight."

The nurse rechecked the medical chart, and shook her head in bewilderment. "It says your name is Sam Whitaker, right here."

"I don't give a rat's ass what the damn thing says, my name is Harley Reeves." Sam leered at the young nurse, and chuckled when he noticed her shift uncomfortably and pull the chart she was holding closer to her chest as if to cover herself from his view. He patted the mattress as he slowly ran his tongue along his upper lip. "Care ta join me over here, sweetheart, cause I'd love ta play naughty nurse and patient with ya." She drew in a sharp intake of air, then took several backward steps. Sam's grinned deepened as he relished in her obvious discomfort. "I'll take that as a no then." He laughed even harder as he noticed her blanch considerably. "If you ain't interested in fulfilling all my kinky little fantasies, then you might as well make yourself useful an' get me my damn clothes then get the hell outta here."

"I . . . I'm going to go get the doctor." The nurse spun around and made a hasty exit from the room.

Sam leaned back against his pillow, and rested his head between laced fingers. As he glanced around at his surroundings, a slow smile crept across his features. The door wasn't locked, and when the nurse had left, he hadn't noticed a guard posted outside.

"Guess you're slippin' in your old age, Ellicott." Sam's grin faltered as he recalled the older man telling him he was going to fix what was wrong with him. Closing his eyes, he listened and for the briefest of moments he heard silence, but then the all too familiar low murmuring of voices inside his head broke through the quiet.

Told you to snap her pretty little neck. She's evil just like your mother. One voice grew to overshadow the others. His father's voice. What's the matter, Harvey, not man enough to take care of one little woman. You were always weak. Not like Jacob.

Sam squinched his eyelids even tighter closed as excruciating pain radiated from behind his eyes.

"Not true," he shook his head, "Jacob was weak, not me . . . killed him with my bare hands, Dad."

You're pathetic. Just like your mother.

"No, I'm nothing like her . . . I'm not." Sam pressed his palms against his ears, hoping to silence the sound of his father's cruel voice.

She dressed you just like a little girl . . . just like a girl. You should have seen yourself wearing a dress with your long dark hair. You looked just like her.

"No . . . that's not true . . . not true." Sam ripped the IV out of his arm, and leapt off the bed. "Jacob was the weak one . . . you were the weak one." Kicking aside the rolling bedside table, Sam grabbed the IV stand and heaved it at the door. "Killed him, Dad . . . watched as his eyes rolled backward in his head . . . and I laughed. Laughed . . . do you hear me? I laughed as he begged me to stop. Laughed as he died."

In his uncontrollable rage, Sam flipped over the hospital bed, and then turned to look for something more to destroy. Stalking to the chair that sat near the window, he picked it up and heaved it at the window. Glass shattered as chair plummeted out the window.

Anger not yet abated, Sam swung to find something more to break, but stopped short when he noticed a doctor and four security guards standing in the doorway. The guards rushed toward him and grabbed a hold of his arms. Sam kicked and bucked against them, and breaking free of their grip, he slammed his fist into one man's nose. He rounded, and smashed his fist into another guard's stomach, the force of the blow lifting the man off the ground.

Three more guards rushed into the room, and they all converged on Sam, tackling him to the ground. Viciously he fought against them as two men kneeled on his arms, trapping them. Two more men trapped his legs as a fifth man pressed his knee into Sam's stomach.

"We got him, Doc," one of the men said as he turned to look at the doctor. "Better sedate him quickly," he added when Sam began to buck and squirm from beneath the pile of men.

"Don't you freakin' hurt my brother," another man shouted as he pushed past the doctor, and grabbed hold of one of the men kneeling on Sam's leg. Tossing him aside, the man gripped a hold of another man, and hauled him to his feet. "Get the hell off of my brother, you freakin' bastards."

The scruffy-haired man made quick work of removing the remaining men from on top of Sam, and then grabbed a hold of Sam's hand and helped him to his feet. He then swung to glare at the doctor. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Brought my brother here for help, an' this is your freakin' idea of helping him?"

"Ain't your brother," Sam quickly supplied as he yanked his hand away from the older man's. "Don't have a brother."

The green-eyed man swung back to look at Sam. A momentary look of confusion crossed his features and then rapidly disappeared as a scowl settled on his features.

"Bo," the man leaned in and lowered his voice so only Sam could hear it, "don't start with this now. They hear you thinkin' your someone else, an' I'll never get ya out of here."

"What the hell are you talkin' about? The name's Reeves." Sam quirked a brow in confusion as he stared at the man who was pretending like he knew him. "Knew a guy named Bo in Roosevelt. Never liked him. Smart assed sonuvabitch." Sam smirked as he cracked his knuckles. "Actually tried to kill him once." Sam tapped at his right temple as he leaned in and whispered in the man's ear, "But I got 'em all in my head . . . all of 'em . . . all the ones who need to die." He flashed the man a brilliant smile, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the green-eyed man intently. "Gonna kill them all . . . an' ya know what?" He hesitated for a moment, relishing the look of stark fear on the older man's face. "I think I'm gonna kill you too."

Without anymore warning than that, Sam gripped hold of the man's neck, and squeezed at the man's throat with all his strength. The man coughed and sputtered as he tried to break Sam's hold, but Sam dug his thumbs into the man's Adam's apple, choking off his air.

A devious smile slid across his features as he pictured Jacob dying by his hand. "Die Jacob . . . do the world a favor and jus' die."

So intent on killing the man, Sam didn't notice the guards and doctor closing in on him until he felt a sharp pin-prick in his upper arm. Releasing his hold on the scruffy-haired man, he swung to attack them. He took several slow deliberate steps toward the doctor, and then stopped short as the room began to weave in and out of focus.

Sam shook his head, trying to clear the thick fog that was quickly overtaking his mind. Darkness edged in from all sides as his knees buckled and he crashed to the ground. The middle-aged dark haired doctor said something to Sam, but all he could hear was Ellicott's voice, murmuring, don't be afraid . . . I'm going to help you . . . I'm going to make you all better, over and over again as he lost the battle to stay conscious.