Before I get started:

Thanks to everyone who reviewed and asked for more - this chapter is here because of you. Thanks to Mishka for telling me to just go for it, carocali for your offer to help, and mostly thanks to melja for helping me flush out the overall idea and for kicking your thoughts back to me over the past few days - that was what made this fun : )

Okay - so this was a oneshot, and I had really planned on keeping it that way, but then the damn thoughts crept into my head again, and several of you asked for more. I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this, but if you're willing to read - I'm willing to write. This isn't what I thought it would be… this is what came out.

Decisions In Blood

CH 2

John entered the hospital recovery room registering quickly that his youngest son was standing, not lying down as he should be.

"Sam, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Putting my clothes on," Sam said as he struggled to pull his shirt on over the bandaging of his left arm.

"You shouldn't be up yet," John said crossing the room to him.

"I wanna see Dean,"

"You can see him after you've rested."

"I have rested."

"Not enough, lie down."

"I'm fine, and I'm going." Sam turned quickly and shoved past his father towards the door, half way there everything went black.

Sam wasn't about to let a little detail like darkness heed his progress. He quickened his step and kept walking as if he could see, intent on the idea that the head rush would pass before he exited the room. And it may have, had he not slammed straight into the rolling table that blocked his path.

"Sammy!" John yelled more scolding, than concerned, as he grabbed his son and hefted his heavy body onto the bed. Sam's vision returned quickly revealing his father's pissed expression.

"Shit," Sam blurted, punching his fist hard into the edge of the table which had stopped him. It rolled across the room and came to a bumping stop as it collided with the wall.

John's expression softened and he laughed slightly at his son.

"What? You think this is funny?" Sam blurted angrily.

"No Sam, I … I think that table got exactly what it deserved." John smirked, shaking his head. "You really are as pig headed as me. You know that?" Sam rolled his eyes and sunk back into the bed, almost laughing… almost.

"Now stay here and rest for a while. Give it another hour."

"Fine," Sam gave in.

John got up and began to leave the room.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to my own room," John responded not missing Sam's consistently suspicious tone. "I'm not exactly supposed to be up either." With that, John headed out the door, back to his room, and past it.

Sam gave it a good three minutes, then stood, left the room, and left the hospital. He had remembered nothing, just the sharp pain of hitting the cold tile floor, and then waking up in the hospital bed, alone, his bandaged arm an unmistakable sign he had failed; failed his brother; failed himself.

Since his first method of contacting Dean hadn't worked, he decided to try something else, and to do that, he needed to pick something up. Had Sam been rational, his next method would have been his first. But he was not rational, he was broken, overwhelmed, and very near the point of losing hope.

He had cut himself to save his brother's life, that's what he had told himself, that's what he had decided as he stared himself down in the mirror. He would put his own life in jeopardy, and it would be fine, it would be fine because he had nothing to lose, nothing to lose should neither of them come back. But in taking that step, Sam had been hit with something unexpected. Between the time of decision and the sound of cracking tiles, Sam had foun stillness… silence… solace.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Sam sat in the dirt, his back pressed against the trunk of some random car in the lot, his knees pulled up to him, his head pressed into them, rocking… rocking… left to right as he repeated the words uncontrolled to himself.

Sam had made his decision.

He would go to his brother, tell him he was right, tell him it was too little, too late, and tell him how badly he was hurting. Then he would walk away.

He had played the scenario out in his head, played it until it was stale. Each time he would walk away, drop to the ground, back against a car, and cry, turn in on himself until he heard it…

quiet… stoic… healing.

"Sam," his brother said his name from a spot only just above him. "Sam," he said it again, now just next to his face. The hand came to his shoulder, and without looking up, his brother pulled him, crying and shaking into a strong hold. As Sam pressed his face hard into his brother's chest, Dean did the one thing Sam needed, he simply held him.

"I can't do this alone," Sam sobbed. "I can't… maybe that's what you need. You need me to leave you alone, but I can't. I can't Dean. I can't… I… I need you, man. I need you, so I keep pushing, and pushing, because I can't handle this. I can't handle this on my own. I… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…. I'm sorry…" With these words he felt Dean pull him tighter, felt Dean press his chin down gently onto the top of his head. Sam shut his eyes, felt his brother all around him, and slipped calmly into the solace of his brother's warmth.

That's how it had ended in Sam's head. No matter how he played it, his brother had come after him, his brother had held him, his brother had made everything stop.

That's not how it happened.

Sam was halfway to the house when he heard it, heard the glass shatter from a distance behind him. He turned around, startled as hell, and stood in shock watching from an obscured view as his brother beat the shit of the trunk of the Impala. Sam started to shake, and as his legs went weak, he slowly sunk to the ground and crouched behind the trunk of one of the cars. He continued to watch, his chest clinching with every hit, until Dean finally tossed the crowbar aside and just stood there, completely static.

Sam twisted away and hid himself fully behind the vehicle as he brushed the tears out of his eyes. He took a couple of deep breaths, then turned back, only to find his brother was gone.

Sam rolled back behind the car and dropped down to the dirt. He sat as he had pictured himself, back to the trunk, knees to his chest, head dropped onto them. Sam held himself as a sharp shudder raced though his body, he would not be hearing his brother's voice.

Dean remembered nothing, nothing of the time Sam had suspected his brother's spirit to be roaming the halls of the hospital. Had Dean remembered, Dean would know. Dean would know what he had gone through, Dean would know what he had done. Sam knew he would be mad, and he would be protective, keeping an eye on him at every turn. Sam had been thankful for his brother's memory loss… had been. Now, if Dean knew, maybe he would listen to him, protect him, help him.

But Dean didn't know, only his father had known. Sam wanted to believe his father had cared, that he had given a shit. But John hadn't heard, John hadn't listened. John simply ignored what happened, treating Sam's wound like an injury from a hunt, the everyday scar of a warrior. Sam had wanted his father to ask, to yell, to be furious, to reprimand him for almost taking his life, but the one time John could have made things right by yelling at his son, had been the one time he kept silent.

Why didn't he care? Sam's head pounded. How could he not care that I almost died?

The moment Sam could stand, he had blown off his father's bullshit orders, and rushed out of the hospital, hastily returning with a ouija board. He sat quietly in Dean's room, spreading it out on the floor before him, asking his brother to hold his usual comments to himself. When the planchette moved, he spoke of what he'd done only once.

"I guess what I tried was pretty stupid, huh?" Sam said quietly. Upon releasing the comment into the stillness of the room, Sam received the planchette sliding response of 'yes', and it was never touched upon again. He figured Dean had left it at 'yes' because it would take insanely long to spell out, 'Sam, I'm gonna kick your ass if you try anything like that again!' At least, those were the words he had created and clung to in his head, knowing Dean would never have responded with the hurtful silence his father had issued.

But now…

Now his father was gone, and his brother was completely despondent of the entire situation.

Fuck him! Fuck him, Sam thought. Sam focused on how he had put himself out there, stood in front of his brother and admitted he was right. It was too late to fix things with their father, too late to be a good son, too late to be forgiven. He had laid himself out in all his vulnerability, and god damn him, nothing.

Dean gave him nothing.

Couldn't Dean see he was hurting? Couldn't Dean see he was lost? Couldn't Dean see he needed him, that he was indirectly begging for his damn help?

He hated Dean for holding it all inside. Hated him for keeping to himself and working on his car. Hated him if that was what he needed to cope. Maybe he should respect that, respect what Dean needed, but couldn't Dean take five fucking minutes to make sure his kid brother was okay? Couldn't he take five minutes to show he gave a shit about fixing something other that his fucking car?

Dean could pretend he didn't care about John all he wanted. But Dean would never need to pretend he didn't care about Sam. So far as Sam was concerned, his brother had made it dramatically clear he didn't care about him. At least, this is how Sam's messed up mind was beginning to piece things together.

It all hurt, it all collided, it all rambled inside his head. Sam clutched his scalp pleading for it to stop. Just stop.

Sam brushed over the bandage on his arm.
The commitment, the cutting, the calm.

It was the only time Sam could remember feeling content in the past year, like he had control over something, like he had control over making it stop.

The voices in his head, the taunting, the self torture, the consistent what if's that never shut the fuck up. The worry, the wishes, the intense wear it had taken on him. Sam shook as his head continued to fill with thoughts: horrific, unstoppable, unmanageable thoughts. He slammed his fist into his head wanting it to end, pleading for it to end with each pounding hit. He had lived with it for so long, waiting and enduring as it continued to fill, and grow, and sprout, and breed more and more pain inflicting thought, out of thought, out of thought, until his mind and chest felt tangled in sharp thorny vines, gripping, and piercing, and constricting.

He had craved for it to stop, and now, looking down at the bandage, he remembered that feeling of calm, of resolve, of hope, all granted by something overwhelmingly simple which he had failed to grasp prior to that moment. It had all been ended by a decision, one quick decision.

He wouldn't need a knife, all he needed was to decide. If he tore hard enough, he could simply re-open what he had, he could bleed like last time, he could have his decision, he could have his solace.

But it wouldn't be like last time.

You can't… you can't… Sam pulled his arm hard to his chest. Last time it was for him… this wouldn't be for him… this would destroy him.

Sam despised himself for considering it. He couldn't. He couldn't take the path which lay so clearly before him. Sam sunk into himself and clutched at his scalp. The voices were thickening. His knowledge of the decision bore through his skull and instead of resolving, became another afflicting voice in the crowd.

Thoughts? More? Let me know - rate on the angst-o-meter if you like - I don't find this chapter to be quite as angsty as the last- but you're the experts : )

-Kate

PS- EIC ch6 - aka: 'the strip club chapter' will be up soon - I promise!