Hey there! Sorry for taking so long to update! Real life insists to get in the way. Sooo, this chapter's driven me crazy. I made the terrible mistake of announcing there would be an intense scene, and the second I did that I somehow raised everyone's expectations and as a result I got all nervous and started rewriting the installment over and over again, all the time thinking Damn..it's not really THAT intense…and well, I hope you'll like the result. The scene I was talking about it's not at the beginning anymore. Enjoy!!

Oh, and really, THANKS to all of you who are still reading. Last chapter was the most reviewed of the story! I was so happy! And thanks to Em: this story belongs to her too.

-7-

We left the Moore's residence in the rearview mirror, and the echoes of mourning were suffocated by the rumble of the car. Sam had taken the passenger's seat obediently and sat with his eyes closed and his head tilted back. I glanced at him a couple of times as I drove and thought about Simon's words. I still found it hard to believe that Sam wanted my presence for more than just driving him around or reminding him to eat and sleep when he was too wired to remember by himself. But Simon had sounded so sure that I was beginning to doubt myself.

And now, after wishing for so long that my little brother would give me a sign that he needed me, I found myself fearing that it was true. It was bad enough to watch him from the sidelines suffering helplessly, but it was even worse to know that what I might do or say could actually make a difference. That realization opened up a whole new realm of chances for me to screw up.

"You alright there, man?" I asked softly, after a while of silent driving.

Sam gave a light nod, breathed in, and after a beat blinked open a pair of lifeless eyes to watch the fleeting scenery pass.

"You want me to put on some music?"

A weak shake of the head was all the answer he gave me, and I swallowed in defeat and focused on the road ahead.

"You should have heard them, Dean," he said out of the blue.

I tossed him an inquisitive look. His voice was distant, almost as if he was talking to himself, and his eyes were downcast.

"Who?"

"All of them," Sam said, shrugging. "They were so kind to me, doing their best to show me their support, to let me know I was one of them. Even Abby…Jess' mother, she sat with me for a while and tried to comfort me. Comfort me, Dean. Can you believe it?"

"Well," I said, measuring my words, "she was your girlfriend, Sam. You've lost her too."

My brother's jaw twitched and, clearly discarding the idea, he shook his head. I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from insisting. Arguing wouldn't get us anywhere. Not right now.

"Then her father came to me and he…" Sam paused and licked his lips. "He hugged me," he then said sadly. "And after that he looked me in the eye and asked me…he a-asked me…"

I looked at him sideways.

"What did he ask you?"

My brother drew in a shaky breath.

"He asked me how the fire started," he whispered.

I grimaced sympathetically. But Sam wasn't looking at me. I think that by then, he wasn't looking at anything at all.

"He asked me how the fire started, and I lied to his face." He gave a hollow chuckle. "I lied to a devastated man who accepted me into his house the very day he buried his little girl."

"You were protecting him."

"I wasn't protecting him," he said emptily. "I was protecting myself."

Struggling for something to say, I opened my mouth, but Sam wasn't expecting an answer. I knew I had lost him for the time being when he closed his eyes and turned his head toward the window again.

Nightmares came back that night. You might think I would be used to them by then, but I would never get used to seeing my brother jolting awake with a gasp or seeing the tears he lost control over escaping his closed eyelids while he slept. Knowing that he wouldn't answer my questions, I had stopped asking him about the dreams. But we also had quit pretending they didn't keep both of us awake. Most nights neither of us said anything; we just laid quietly in the dark as we waited for daylight to come.

Some other times though, Sam did talk. Not about the dreams, of course. Not about Jessica, or Stanford, or even Dad. He talked about silly things, inconsequential things. On the night after the funeral, he suddenly started rambling in a low, faraway voice, about some stupid memory of a hunt in Virginia that had taken place when he was 13 and I was 17. I have no idea what brought it back, but I listened to him. Sam might not believe it, but I always listened when he talked.

And I know some people might think it was wrong, even selfish of him to assume I was awake just because he was. But for me, it felt right that he took it for granted that my sleep patterns mimicked his own. It meant that, at least during the night, we had found a way to be on the same page.

oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo

Sam and I spent the following day working in the library. Well, he worked. I escorted him. Apparently, Jessica's funeral had triggered some kind of frantic urge for answers in him that was even more pressing than it had been before. Maybe he felt he had failed the Moores as well as his girlfriend's memory by being a Winchester in mourning. Watching him consulting all kinds of books at once, I could only wonder what exactly was going on inside his head.

If only he knew how much he reminded me of our father in those moments. But of course, I couldn't tell him that. He had already snapped at me in the morning when I had suggested we go for breakfast before plunging ourselves into research mode. He had snapped at the librarian for giving him a weird look when he asked about books on demonology. And when we casually met with Zach and Christine, who had approached to apologize for not having been able to make it to the funeral, I saw in his eyes that it was all he could do not to snap at them too.

The moment they disappeared, Sam took his books without anything more than a grunt and moved to a private cubicle, making it absolutely clear that he didn't appreciate the interruptions. Then he snapped at me again when I tried to get him to eat something. To him stopping for any reason meant that we would have to leave the hunt for a while and Damn it, Dean. This is important. You wanna eat, just go and eat.

It was then that I realized Sam hadn't had a good day, and I accepted my defeat. Knowing him as I do, I'd say he was painfully aware that the previous day he had been close to breaking and, on top of that, I had been there to witness it. Now, all he had in mind was to compensate those wasted hours of weakness and trade his health and sanity for something productive, such as answers and revenge. Anybody that stood in his way was going to pay the consequences, so all I could do was to back off graciously and let him have it his way. But nothing could stop me from keeping an eye on him, just in case. After all, if that now-hot now-cold emotional rollercoaster of his was making my head spin, I could only imagine what it was doing to him.

He deflated as the hours went by. His determination was just as firm, but everybody has limits and Sam was working himself to exertion. After a couple of hours more, I took my chances and braced myself to go and convince him to leave. Surprisingly, he acceded. But I wasn't fooled. I sensed the frustration that emanated from him as clearly as a physical punch, and I knew it would only be a matter of time before he snapped again. Only when Sam slumped boneless in the passenger seat without so much of a word and I started the car did I dare let out a weary, relieved breath.

Another day had passed. And we had made it through.

Sam asked me to stop by the cemetery before going back to the motel. I complied, because I understood that the crowded service of the previous day hadn't given him a chance to have a moment with Jess alone. Once there, I waited silently a few feet from him as he stood before the grave.

"You think we should make sure?" he asked all of a sudden.

His voice was flat, and I almost shuddered at the sound.

"What do you mean?"

"You know, salt and burn her…" he said and swallowed. "Or maybe just salt her, because…"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Don't give me that look!" he said, huffing. "It would be the professional thing to do."

I shook my head in disbelief. For Christ's sake, really, what was going on inside his head? Whatever it was, it had to stop.

"Fuck that."

"Pardon me?"

"Stop it, Sam."

"No, you stop it Dean!" he exclaimed, glaring at me.

"Stop what?"

"Stop looking at me like…as if I was going to break at any moment! I can't fucking stand it! For the last time, Dean, I'M FINE!" he yelled.

It was funny that he was saying this while he was shaking like a leaf. Fucking hysterical.

Good old anger had replaced his weariness. It wasn't until later that I realized that he was channeling all of that fury against me because he didn't know where else to put it. So instead of helping him through the worst of it, I only aggravated the situation by responding to his anger with some of my own.

"You know what I can't stand, Sammy?" I snarled.

I knew I should stop. I knew the days were taking a toll on us, especially on him, and that I had to be strong, weather the storm and just take him back to the room. But I couldn't help it. He had caught me unprepared, in the open, when I had thought we were finally safe. When I was most vulnerable. And equally dangerous.

"I can't stand you lying to me! Salt and burn her, Sam? Are you out of your mind? You.Are.Not.Fine!" I growled. "You know that. I know that. Now, you may not want to talk about it, and I may not like it, but I'll have to respect it, because it's your call. But I'm not taking any of this crap anymore. You don't get to look me in the eye and lie to my face, because let me tell you, little brother, I deserve better than that and don't you believe for a second that you're fooling me."

Sam just stared at me, dumbfounded, his throat working convulsively.

"I'm fine," he repeated.

And that was just too much.

"Oh, you are?" I asked, daring him.

Without adding a word I turned around and stalked to the car. He didn't follow me, either because he was frozen by my outburst or because he was challenging me, the thought of which was unnerving as hell. I opened the truck, grabbed a shovel and stormed back to the grave. He shrank when he saw me coming, and I felt a rush of guilt coupled with victory. I held the shovel out for him and snarled.

"Here, then. You can start digging."

What are you doing, Dean

Sam stared at the shovel as if it was on fire, then back at me with a disbelieving look.

What are you doing to him?

"Take it!"

He flinched and his chin trembled, but I was too out of it to notice. After a while, he set his shoulders and reached out shakily, but his breath hitched, his body betrayed him, and he simply couldn't make it. He stepped back, almost falling to the ground. His face was layered in sweat, and his eyes were shiny. For a second I thought he was going to be sick, but he was just fighting tears as he backed away from me.

Jesus Christ.

Seeing him recoiling finally got through to me. I withdrew the shovel brusquely, as if I had just snapped out of a trance, and only then remembered how to breathe. I closed my eyes and fell hard on my knees, waiting for the world to right itself. I wasn't sure how it had happened. How could I have ended up torturing my brother in front of his girlfriend's grave a day after she had been buried?

"Go back to the car, Sam," I told him. Begged him. I hated myself so much at that moment that I felt like I deserved to be left alone in the dark forever.

"Dean—" He sounded distant, scared.

"Go back to the car," I repeated, roughly. "I'll be there in a minute."

I couldn't look at him, so I just waited until I heard him stumble his way to the Impala. And then the weight in my chest overflowed, and I started sobbing my heart out in a way I hadn't done in years.

oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo

I went back to the car an hour later, aching in every possible way. Because, let's face it, Sam had had a point and as soon as I was able to pull it together, I had dug up the grave of the woman he loved, salted and then punished myself by burning her all over again.

I slipped behind the wheel of the car after throwing the shovel inside the truck. I gave myself a moment to regain my composure while I sat next to the shivering form of my brother who was curled up against his door staring fixedly through the window. Even though he didn't look at me, I knew Sam was aware of what I had done. Just as he could see the trace of tears across the dirt that covered my face.

"Sam, I-"

I swallowed, unable to find the right words. I'm sorry didn't even begin to cover it, but I still felt the unmanageable need to scream it at the top of my lungs over and over again.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said softly.

It was an answer to my previous question and the closest I was going to get to an opening. But really, did I deserve anything better?

"Alright," I breathed, starting the car. "Alright."

oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo

By the time we were back in the room, my hand was on fire. Probably, digging up a grave that evening hadn't been the best idea. I knew I had to change the dressing, but I had been putting it off until now.

In the privacy of the bathroom I blew out a weary breath and slumped over the closed lid of the toilet as I fumbled for the first-aid kit. Clenching my teeth, I started peeling off the bandages. I was clumsy with my left-hand and pain didn't sit well with little food, lack of sleep and stress. I knew I was taking too long when Sam appeared in the doorway.

"You okay?"

"Huh?"

He nodded toward my half-undressed hand as he came closer and kneeled before me.

"Let me do it."

"I can do it, Sam," I said, moving my hand away.

He chewed his lower lip, but kept his eyes low and partially obscured under honey brown bangs.

"I know, but it'll be easier if I help you."

"Don't."

"Dean, please," he whispered, looking me directly in the eye. "Let me help you."

Sighing inwardly, I let him take my hand in his, knowing that by doing so, I was forgiving him for whatever he thought he needed to apologize for.

If irony killed, I would have been struck dead.

He sat beside me on the edge of the tub, placed my hand on his knee and resumed taking off the bandages with extreme gentleness. I almost forgot about the pain. Maybe it just wasn't that bad now that Sam was there to take care of it. Sitting there with our knees touching and our eyes fixed on our practically entangled hands was the closest we had been in a very long time.

"You think that's how he felt?" he asked abruptly.

"Who?"

We were both whispering, God knew why. He finished undressing my hand and reached out for some burn cream.

"Dad," he explained, ruefully.

I gulped.

"I don't know, Sam."

"I… I need to find Dad, Dean."

Well, I needed Dad too. Sam's gruff words hurt, but I didn't know why.

"I know. We'll find him, alright?" I promised.

"Yeah."

Sam's hand found the cream and uncapped it. Then he grabbed my wrist with one hand and started to apply the ointment with the other. I flinched slightly and automatically tried to pull my hand away, but he held my wrist firmly. His hand was warm and when he started to rub the inner side of my arm soothingly with his thumb as he applied the cream, I breathed in and leaned back against the tiled wall, unconsciously relaxing a notch.

"Does it hurt?" Sam questioned hoarsely.

I cocked my head to look him in the eye, because his tone sounded too crushed for my taste. He kept his eyes stubbornly low.

"It's not too bad now," I answered honestly.

He finished with the cream and took a shaky breath before reaching out for fresh bandages. His left hand remained on my wrist and gave it a tender squeeze.

"I'm sorry you got hurt," he muttered as he started redressing my hand.

I curled my fingers over the back of his hand to instinctively envelope it in mine. He slowed down his movements, relishing my touch as if he needed it as much as I did. I felt a lump building inside my throat and blamed the burn on the tears that threatened to pool in my eyes.

"It's okay… It wasn't your fault," I said, fighting the ache in my throat.

I wanted to be reassuring, but instead I had apparently said the wrong thing because his breath caught, and his hand quivered in mine.

"It's not okay," he refuted. "You shouldn't have come back inside, Dean…you could have gotten yourself killed."

"And what did you want me to do, Sam? Wait outside and let you die?"

His silence made me shudder.

"Sam?" I insisted, torn between anger, fear, and plain despair.

"I'm finished."

I blinked, not understanding until I felt a soft tug on my hand. The new bandages were securely wrapped around it, and his hands reluctantly let go of mine. My stomach dropped, and I sat frozen between the need to pull him against me and the need to lock my emotions away in a place where they didn't make my heart shatter. As usual, I got stuck somewhere in the middle, holding onto my brother's hand in a sort of Winchester way of hugging that wasn't enough for either of us.

I hoped that he understood. And when, still not looking at me, he squeezed my fingers back for a few seconds, I wanted to believe that somehow he did.

"Is that what you wanted?" I asked, inwardly cursing as my voice trembled. "You wish you died in there?"

His eyes pleading, he swallowed heavily and flashed me a brief look. I didn't need him to say anything to know what he was thinking, what he was feeling. His eyes did the talking and what they said was, Please, Dean. I can't do this right now. I let it go, because really, he didn't need to answer, and if I had to be honest with myself, I didn't want him to.

"Go to sleep, Sammy," I whispered, releasing his hand.

He took a hesitant breath and stood; he seemed unsure of what to do with his hands and his regained verticality. He nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and I could feel his eyes on me.

"Good night," he said weakly, almost questioningly.

He needed me to tell him we were alright.

"Good night, Sam"

oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo

That was it… (nervously chewing my nails) What did you think??

Love xx