Big thanks to all who reviewed.

With the alerts down I ended up not responding this time, sorry for that, but I just wasn't sure if my replies would just end up in some sort of fanfic abyss. But seriously- all of your reviews were greatly appreciated and again helped move the story forward!

Thanks again to melja for her consistent feedback on this story. Have a cup of caffeine on me girl!

Okay - so chapter 4:

Yet again - hooks up to episode 4 - 'Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things'. Again - I tried to make it clear where we are at all times - hopefully I actually did.

Decisions in Blood

CH 4

Sam had gotten back from checking them out of the motel roughly three minutes ago and had been leaning against the hood of the car, squinting his eyes to handle the early morning sunlight, ever since. He had no idea what was taking his brother so long. They had what… a couple of bags and some maps? His decision was just about to switch from, 'give it another minute' to 'go check on his ass', when Dean walked out of the motel.

Dean crossed to the trunk of the car, popped it open, and threw in their bags. He slammed it shut, then made his way to the front passenger side of the car where he dropped a small med kit onto the hood just in front of Sam. Sam glanced at the little black zippered bag, not really knowing what to make of it, as Dean just stood there, awkwardly silent.

Dean still didn't understand what it was he had seen in the bathroom mirror. The only thing that was clear, was the severity of Sam's pain. As a result, Dean had resolved it was time to give his younger brother some of the attention he deserved.

"Um…" Dean finally began in an uneasy tone.

"What?" Sam questioned his brother's hesitancy. Dean looked away for a second, then turned back to face him.

"I never asked if you were okay," he finally got out in a point blank sort of tone. Sam just stared at him, completely baffled as to what he was talking about.

"Before," Dean elaborated, "when we were out here and you told me you'd been to the nest. I asked how many you killed, I asked where it was… I never asked if you were okay." Dean studied his brother's face, attempting to read the young man's thought process.

"You… could see I was okay," Sam pointed out. Dean stepped closer and made a point of looking him in the eyes.

"That's not what I meant," he explained quietly. Dean watched the sudden shift in Sam's demeanor.

"Um…" Sam pressed and slid his hands against the front of his pants, searching for his pockets. He seemed to be holding it together, but Dean had him under tight surveillance, so the fact that Sam's bottom lip pulsed with a minor tremble didn't go unnoticed. Dean stepped closer, and Sam's breath quickened.

"I should have asked if you were okay, Sam." Dean went out of his way to make what he was saying perfectly clear. "None of that other stuff should have mattered."

Sam's eyes shifted anxiously, then seemed to settle on a spot that reflected an almost inward gaze. He said nothing.

"Well are you?"

"Huh?" Sam came back distracted, pulled from his thoughts.

"Are you okay?" Dean kept at him gently.

Sam forced his gaze just above his brother's eyes. Had he been looking in his brother's eyes, he might have noticed the extended concern, that Dean was evaluating, that he was worried about more than what he was verbalizing. Sam kept his gaze where it was.

"Yeah. I'm fine Dean," Sam stated firmly.

Dean stared at him for a long moment, then let it drop.

"Okay." Dean moved to the med case and unzipped it, then abruptly switched subjects. "Let me see your arm."

"What?" Sam questioned, defensively shifting away. "Why?"

"'Cause you need to re-bandage where Gordon cut you."

"Dean, it's fine… really," Sam insisted.

"Come on, Sam, give it," Dean persisted. "That rag you tied over it looks like it's gonna fall off."

Before Sam could react, Dean reached out and grabbed his arm. Sam's eyes went wide, then shifted fretfully to stare at the underside of his lower wrist. Dean's hand was clasped across his scars, and as his older brother pulled his arm close, Sam realized that at least for the moment, Dean was conveniently blocking the proof of what he had done to himself at the hospital.

Dean held Sam's arm steady, then reached forward with his other hand and tugged down the bandage. The moment it shifted to reveal the blood dried cut, Dean jolted away harshly.

He dropped Sam's arm and backed himself smack into the hood of the car. Shaking, he brought a hand to his eyes. He squeezed his temples hard between his finger tips and his thumb, then turned and braced himself up by firmly planting his other hand to the hood.

"Dean?" Sam stepped toward him, simultaneously pulling his sleeve down. "Hey… what is it, what's wrong?" Dean pulled his hand from his eyes and held it up indicating for Sam to stop, to give him a minute. Finally, he dropped his hand, and bringing it back to his face, scrubbed it over his mouth, then brushed it back up into his hair.

"Nothing," Dean said with a shaky exhale.

"Nothing?" Sam's eyes widened. "That wasn't nothing, Dean. You turned white, you totally freaked!" Dean didn't respond, he just stood there, holding the same position, shaking, thinking. Sam slowly and carefully approached him, then gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Dean…" he began, his tone nurturing. Dean turned.

"I'm okay, Sam," he stated unreliably. Sam hunched forward and glanced his brother over; he looked far from okay. His face was sickly pale, his eyes carried some sort of distant, haunted, vacancy, and apparently he now found it necessary to brace himself up with both hands, because he was leaning back against the hood, arms out stiff and shaking behind him.

"Dean… tell me what happened," Sam insisted.

"I… I'm just tired…" Dean defected.

"Dean…"

"No really," Dean looked his brother in the eyes briefly, planting a somewhat convincing explanation his direction. "We didn't sleep last night, and before that I drove the Impala for what… like ten hours straight?"

Sam listened, and although he didn't quite buy it, he also couldn't disagree.

"Do you wanna go back in the room?" He suggested. "Check back in and get some sleep?"

"No… no." Dean pushed himself fully off the car and stood on his own. "We should get food."

"Okay…" Sam agreed hesitantly. "Are you sure?"

"If you're good driving… I'll catch some sleep on the road." Sam stared at him pensively, attempting to read him, then seeing no other choice, gave in.

"Yeah, yeah I'm good to drive," he agreed.

Dean nodded, handed Sam the keys, then moved past towards the passenger door. Sam loomed protectively behind him, purposely waiting until Dean got himself into the car. As soon as Dean was settled, he grabbed the med kit from the hood, walked around, and got into the driver's seat. He pulled the door shut, then turned to his brother, needing to check on him one last time. Dean was already shifted towards the window, arms folded across his chest, eye shut, face tense.

"Dean…" he tried quietly. When he got no response, Sam turned away, shifted the seat a foot and a half back, and starting the car, pulled them out of the lot.

Why had he agreed to be bait? It was only going to tempt him. Sam shot her square in the forehead. Nice shot, he told himself. Too bad it only pissed her off. Shit!

Sam turned and took off running back towards the grave. She was right on him, and as he got closer, he realized he wasn't going to make it. Her hands dug into him, and the moment her weight hit his back, he lost his balance and slammed to the ground, his gun bouncing out in front of him. He tried to push himself up, but before he could get his palms to the dirt, she was lifting his head, grasping it with both hands, and had it cocked, ready for one quick neck breaking twist. There was no time for him to react, only time to think… snap it.

Dean's bullet came swiftly, ripping her cold fingers from his skin. As his brother continued to fire unrelenting rounds until she fell back into her grave, Sam began to push himself up.

Without warning, they came for him.

They arrived from all sides: jumbled, overlapping whispers that brushed into his mind like wind, took route, and sprouted into quick consumption. Dark patches filled his head, swirling and haunting, single words taunting as they spiraled down, dragged down, scraping his windpipe raw, draining his air, crumbling his lungs to brittle ash. Sam clutched his chest and tried to breath, tried to make a sound as he watched his brother slide into the grave and lift the long, silver blade above his head. As Dean's blade came down, Sam's voices shot back up, potent and persuasive they ripped from his chest, dragged up his throat, and like trapped fire blowing out the windows of a car, shattered their meaning into his skull. Sam heard the scream inside his head resonate and fade, his mind voided, his arm bucked, completely consumed, he collapsed back to the ground.

Dean glared fiercely at his kill, exhaling heavily. She was pinned, she was through, she was where she belonged; where she never should have left. Dean shook slightly as he took in her pale skin, her stillness. She was no longer there, she was at peace. Peace. Dean knew what that word meant, but only by definition.

"Sam! A little help over here!" Dean called from the grave, ready to finish this. He turned and looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see Sam approaching, instead, his brother was lying in a heap on the ground. "Sammy?" He questioned breathily. Dean turned, planted his hands into the crumbed dirt which surrounded the grave, then hauled himself up and out. He moved quickly to his brother's side and knelt down. Sam was clearly unconscious, passed out face down in the dirt. Dean was thrown, he has seemed fine a minute ago, he had seen Sam starting to get up when he moved past him headed to the grave. Dean lifted him gently and rolled him onto his back, then stuck his fingers to his neck feeling for a pulse. It was racing, abnormally fast.

"Sam…" he said, shaking him. "Sammy… come on man." With no immediate response, his gut tightened. What the hell happened to him? He didn't hit the ground that hard, he didn't seem hurt. Dean scooped an arm behind his brother's upper back and lifted him from the dirt. He pulled Sam towards his chest, lifted his brother's head with his other hand, and lightly slapped the side of his face. "Sammy! Wake up!"

Slowly, Sam began to come to. He moaned breathily, as his head rolled and lolled in Dean's hand. Dean tried to steady him, as he continued to call his name. Sam shifted as light whimpers escaped with his breath. Suddenly, Sam's body tensed and turned, as he unexpectedly twisted himself further into his older brother's grasp. He pressed his forehead hard to Dean's chest, then reached up and clutched a fistful of fabric into his palm. Pulling hard on Dean's shirt, Sam, wept, whimpered, and wrought subconscious grief into his brother. Dean's eyes darkened, as he felt Sam's pain… felt it in a horribly familiar, internal way.

Dean buckled instantly and pulled Sam closer, wrapping his arms fully around his brother.

"Sammy, it's okay."

"No… no… NO!" Sam screamed and launched away from him, falling back onto the ground at a distance. Now awake, and completely disoriented, Sam surveyed his surroundings in a sheer panic. Dean watched him with a calculating eye, then approached him with apprehension. Sam swung an arm out, in warning for Dean to keep his distance, as he struggled to understand. "What happened?!" Sam shouted gruffly.

"I don't know."

"What happened?!"

"I don't know, Sam! I don't. You were getting up when I ran past, but when I looked back you were out. Just… out."

Sam slowly calmed, his eyes revealing turmoil somewhere deep beneath the shaky strength he was attempting to front. He turned his face from his brother, and started to stand.

"Hey, whoa- whoa- hold up," Dean protested, as he placed a firm hand on Sam's shoulder to keep him from standing. "Maybe you should take it easy." Shaking with exhaustion, Sam lowered himself back to the ground.

"I don't need to take it easy, Dean," he argued. "I'm fine."

"Okay, but… for whatever reason, you were just unconscious. You should rest a few minutes. I'll nail the coffin shut, then you can help me replace the dirt," Dean bargained. Sam sighed in frustration, then nodded and giving in, leaned back onto his elbows.

Dean didn't even hesitate. He pulled off his jacket, bunched it into a ball, and reached it behind Sam, placing it to the ground reminiscent of a pillow. Sam just sort of stared at him, very confused like.

"What? I can't do something nice?" Dean questioned.

"No," Sam retuned, still perplexed, "not really." Dean rolled his eyes then shoved his brother down onto the softness of his jacket.

"Shut your eyes, I'll get you when I need you." Dean stood and headed back towards the grave as Sam, giving into the situation, let his eyes shut.

Dean returned to the grave trying not to over think it, trying not to over think his brother's emotions, or his own. He had no idea why Sam had passed out, it didn't matter. What mattered, was the unreserved anguish he had expressed while still unconscious. Dean hammered his thoughts into the coffin with each nail. Ten minutes later he emerged from the grave and returned to his brother. Sam was totally out. It took one look to comprehend that his brother was waking no time soon.

"Don't need rest, my ass." Dean shook his head and glanced the graveyard. A cold breeze blew the grounds. Curling up under his shirt, it caught the back of his neck with a sharp prick, like a cold metal hook had suddenly pierced and jerked him. As the light wind traveled the yard, Dean allowed his eyes to follow the few dead leaves which tumbled trapped in its current. They rolled through the grass, skimmed across the dirt, then tumbled to a stop against a headstone. Dean tensed as he read its name. He stared for a moment, then glanced at his brother, then back at the headstone.

Dean slowly walked over. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and stared at the name imprinted in the granite: 'Mary Winchester'. Dean's eyes slowly came to expose the weight he carried as he let himself feel.

"You're not here," he spoke directly, then recalled the breeze. "Well, not usually." Dean sighed. "It's not that I don't respect Sammy for… whatever it was he needed coming here… but to me… I don't need to stand here to talk to you." Dean stopped. His thoughts shifted, back to where they tended to drift naturally these days. "I shouldn't be talking to you… I should be with you. I should be with you. But we've already had this conversation."

Dean looked to the ground in avoidance as he kicked his foot lightly into the grass. He quickly noticed a small tuff of earth which seemed recently turned up, he knelt and pulled at it. As he flopped it aside and dug his fingers into the moist earth, he felt the cold beaded chain curl between his knuckles. Dean clinched his hand into a fist and lifted, pulling his father's dog tags from the dirt.

"Son of a bitch," he gasped with a smile and a chill. Dean glanced to his brother, then to the headstone, then stood. He kicked the clump of grass back into place, and looked pointedly at his mother's grave. "You knew… knew I'd been searching for these for weeks." Dean lifted the chain over his head, and tucked the tags under his shirt. The cold metal slid down his chest, and settle to rest. As the tags adjusted to the temperature of his skin, another breeze curled around him; this time it was warm.

"I was dead, and I should have stayed dead." Dean sat on the edge of the hood, keeping his tear stained eyes from his brother. "You wanted to know how I was feeling. Well that's it. So tell me, what could you possibly say to make that alright?"

Sam held his gaze as Dean finally turned to look at him. His brother was hurting. He was so close, inches from him, yet Sam still couldn't reach him. Dean had stopped the car, chosen this moment to pull over on the side of the road because he finally needed to speak, and now that he had finally admitted what he was feeling, Sam couldn't speak.

Sam turned away. It wasn't that the words wouldn't come, plenty came, an overload of thought and response entered his head, but as Sam finally found his voice, only one phrase exited his mouth.

"I'm sorry," Sam mumble softly.

"What?" Dean questioned, as his anger crept back into play. "You're sorry? Sorry for what, Sam? Sorry I finally spoke to you, or sorry I'm alive?"

"Dean…" Sam began, exhausted by his brother's relentless attitude, "you're just… you're right… okay? I don't know what to say to you, but that's because I never know what to say to you anymore without being scared shitless it's just gonna set you off."

"Really? 'Cause it seems to me you've had plenty to say on this subject up until now." Dean stopped himself, realizing he needed to calm down. "Just forget it, Sam," Dean attempted to bring the conversation to an abrupt halt, as he turned and started to walk.

"I only wanted to reach you, Dean," Sam spoke honestly. "To let you know you're not alone in this. No matter what happened in that hospital."

"No matter what happened?" Dean turned and stepped forward, putting himself directly in Sam's face. "Sam, Dad died! And every bit of thinking I've done since makes it clear that he died trading his life for mine! Now you can say that's not what happened, but you're the one who's been telling me I need to deal with this, and this… this is what happened!"

"You don't…"

"I do, Sam! Dad was fine, he was healthy, and he let himself die to save me! To bring me back from the dead! You don't think there's something wrong in that? You don't think…"

"In sacrificing your own life to try and save someone you love?" Sam yelled. "No Dean! No! I don't think… I know! I know Dad made the right decision!"

"Maybe," Dean countered staring at him coldly, "maybe Dad did make the right decision… but Sam… look at me. It wasn't his decision to make." Dean forced his feelings into his brother's eyes, then walked away.

Sam turned away and attempted to keep his temper and emotions calm as Dean walked to the back side of the car, leaned against the trunk, and dropped his head into his hand.

Sam heard what his brother had said, he just didn't agree. He was sure of what his father had done, that he had sacrificed his own life for Dean's; and for the first time Sam could remember, he agreed with his father's way of thinking. In fact, he couldn't disagree, because Sam had made the exact same decision himself.

Both men stood on opposite sides of the car: Dean seated against the trunk, Sam against the hood, each burying their eyes in their hands, dealing with their grief alone.

Thanks everyone. If you're moved to… let me know what you're feelin'.

Kate