Yet another chapter - with more thanks to all who reviewed - and more special thanks to Melja for all her feedback... and coffee drinking!

Same deal as last time - this chapter hooks up to 'Simon Said'.

Again, it skips around, but in theory you should be able to follow it : ) best of luck!

Decisions In Blood

Ch 5

Dean sat on the trunk of his car. He didn't want it to go that way. He didn't want to lose his temper. He didn't want to fight. It was too late for wants. Dean sighed heavily and brushed the tears from his eyes. He pressed his hands to the car, and turned to confirm that his brother was still in the same spot, sitting against the hood, right where he had left him. Dean turned away.

Dean had talked, he had tested his brother, and Sam had walked confirmed.

In sacrificing your own life… Dean heard Sam's words as clearly as his own thoughts. I don't think… I know!

"Damn it, Sammy," he whispered, then pushed himself off the car and walked to the drivers door.

Dean kept an eye on his brother as he got into the car. He plunked hard into the seat, shoved the keys back into the ignition, then leaning forward, he folded his arms across the wheel, and buried his head into them. Dean let himself feel his exhaustion, both mental and physical, then, pushing it away, he reached an arm down and started the car. Dean slowly lifted his head from the wheel. He glimpsed the area directly before him, Sam was no longer in front of the car. Dean kept his head mostly down as he waited for the sound of the passenger door; the sound never came. He sat fully up and turned to his right. There was no sign of Sam. Slightly thrown, he scanned to his left, then behind the car… Sam was simply gone.

Dean shut the car off as he continued to scan the area. He pushed open the door and stepped back outside, his investigating face on. It was perfectly quiet, perfectly still. His head hadn't been down that long; it would have taken time for Sam to get to the trees, to get anywhere out of site. Dean's gut wrenched. He stepped forward, towards where Sam had been, and as he rounded the corner of the car, he located his brother. Dean's eyes twitched with concern as he moved forward and dropped to his knees.

Sam was on the ground, on his side, again… unconscious. From what Dean could tell, it looked as if Sam had just passed out and slid off the front of the car. Dean hesitated before moving him. Sam was lying heavily on top of his right arm, which was bent at a hell of an awkward angle. Dean lifted Sam off his arm, pulled it clear, then returned his heavy body to the ground, lying him on his back.

Dean gently took Sam's right arm up into his hands. He felt along the wrist for a break, as Sam moaned and shifted about restlessly in response to the touch.

"Well, if that zombie bitch didn't break it, your freakish body weight just did," Dean quipped to himself.

Becoming briefly engulfed in his brother's progressive vulnerability, Dean tried to calculate exactly what had caused Sam to passed out. He turned his arm over, pressed his thumb to his brother's wrist, and made note of the again abnormally fast heart rate. Dean sat back onto his heels, thinking. He glanced down at his brother's right arm, placed it gently to the ground, then reached for Sam's left arm. As his hand came in contact with it, Sam began moaning and panting in a rapid, yet unconscious panic. Before Dean could react, Sam bolted awake and sat up, quickly shifting himself away.

Dean was so startled at the abrupt waking, that he fell back onto the gravel with a hard bump as his ass met the ground.

Sam glanced around attempting to orient himself. Almost immediately, he seemed to understand what had happened.

Dean cautiously started to move toward him, but Sam shot a hand out in warning, as he backed himself hard against the grill of the Impala. Dean watched his younger brother with vigilance. Sam dropped his face into his left hand and held it there, slowly calming. Once he had regrouped, he darted Dean a brief look which solidified his intent to be left alone, then broke away. Sam shifted to his knees, pushed himself up, and stumbled weakly, yet swiftly to the passenger seat.

Dean stayed just as he was, staring vacantly at the grill of the car. I only wanted to reach you. I… I came to help you… The passenger door slammed shut, severing Dean from his thoughts with a jolt.

Dean paid for the gas, then went around back to search for his brother. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, so he never even hesitated.

"Sam, come on, zip it up…" Dean pushed the door open. "Let's hit the…" Dean caught site of his brother. "…road."

Sam was leaning against the sink, water dripping from his face, his expression pained and almost sickly.

"What?" Dean questioned, slightly caught off guard by the abrupt change in his brother's demeanor.

Sam stared vacantly, seemingly unaware of his brother's presence. He squinted, as if in reaction to a sharp pain, then slowly dropped to the floor.

"Sam!" Dean moved fast and grabbed him by the shoulders, keeping his brother up as Sam swayed in a disoriented despondence, one hand pinching at his eyes. "Sam, what's going on?" Dean was positive his brother was about to pass out, to hit the floor, same as the graveyard, same as on the road, then Sam shook it off.

"Ahh…" Sam gasped. "Dean… a man… he's gonna shoot someone, then himself." Sam blurted a breathy explanation as he began to refocus on where he was.

"A vision?" Dean question, incredulously. He was actually relieved. He didn't like Sam's visions, especially the harsh toll they took on his brother both physically and mentally, but at least he understood what they were… sort of.

Sam grabbed hold of Dean and pushed his typical look of determined savior at him.

"We need to leave, Dean. We need to get to him," Sam insisted as he tried to stand.

"Wait Sam, wait!" Dean kept him to the floor. "Do you even know where this guy is? Tell me exactly what you saw."

"We'll figure it out in the car," Sam gripped his brother's arms firmly and empowered empathy via his eyes. "Dean, get me out of here," he stated bluntly.

Dean absorbed what he was meant to and glanced their surroundings. He registering the small bathroom, the white porcelain sink; he needed his brother out of this space; he needed out of this space. Dean stood and pulled his brother to his feet. As Sam turned and got himself through the door, Dean followed, one hand protectively against Sam's back, holding their connection.

Dean slowly let his hand drop from his brother's back, hoping the brief contact had provided Sam with some sort of comfort. It hadn't.

"I kept him out of the gun store," Sam explained, raw emotion coating his voice as he sat on the sidewalk. "I thought he was okay. I thought he was past it, at least… I should have stayed with him."

Dean took in his younger brother's self accusations. This was not Sam's fault, but Dean could hear it in his brother's voice, as far as Sam was concerned, he may as well have pushed the guy in front of that bus.

"Come on, Sam," he instructed gently. "Let's go… okay?" Sam didn't respond, but instead held his vacant gaze towards the doctor's body. Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Sammy…" Dean pulled his brother from the ground purely by means of his tone. Once up, he took Sam by the arm and steered him past the body, down the side of the building, and onto a deserted backstreet. As Dean stopped, Sam glanced around slightly lost, numbly waiting for his older brother to lead the way. Dean came in front of him, and lightly pushed him up against the back wall of the building. Sam stared past his brother, to somewhere at the end of the street, fully conscious of where this was going.

"Sam, look at me." Sam continued to stare down the street. "Look at me, Sam," Dean repeated, still not inducing the response he wanted. "This wasn't your fault. Are you listening to me?" Dean looked away for a moment, frustrated, then back to his brother. "Sam…" Dean continued to watch the blame progress in his brother's eyes. "Sammy…"

Dean reached up, grabbed Sam's chin, then turned and held him so they were face to face. Although this should have achieved eye contact, it didn't, as Sam kept his eyes anywhere but on his brother.

"Sam, I know you feel responsible, but you did what you could." Sam shook his head, fully disagreeing. "This is not your fault," he stated again firmly. Sam stopped shaking his head, and stood silent, containing his tears to a simple glaze of the eyes. He bit his bottom lip, and pushed his breath hard out his nose.

"I'm fine Dean," Sam stated gruffly. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Are you? 'Cause I don't think you are."

"Drop it. Okay? Just let it go," Sam said simply.

"I will, if you will," Dean bargained harshly. Sam laughed slightly and shook his head. He brushed at his eyes then looked fully at his brother.

"We should find your car." Sam stared him down, making it clear he was done on this topic.

"Yeah…" Dean gave in. "Fine." Sam darted past him, and took off at a quick pace down the street.

Great… fucking great. Dean thought. Monkey see, monkey do. He's mimicking your behavior, man. Holding it all in and keeping the one person trying to get to him at bay. Dean started to walk, intent on catching up to his brother before he lost site of him. As he moved, he scratched a hand through his hair, and sighed in disgust. He's mimicking you… and same as you, it's killing him.

Dean stood on the bridge and tried to convince his brother that talk induced via mind control was the same thing as babbling after being drugged: it flat out didn't count. His argument sounded good to him, and so he was sticking with it, whether Sam liked it or not. Besides…

"Doesn't matter, look, we just gotta keep doing what we're doing, find that evil son of a bitch, and kill it," Dean explained, as if it were as simple as picking up items on a grocery list. Conveniently, Dean's phone began to ring, and he shifted his attention away from his brother.

"Yeah…" Sam stared at him, thrown by his brother's simplification of their lifelong battle. "I guess."

As Dean answered his phone, Sam opened the car door and got inside. What was his brother talking about? How could Dean belittle his concern so easily, so frequently? Things were changing, fast, and if they weren't prepared for whatever the Demon had in store, Sam was positive they'd be pretty much screwed. But fine, whatever, if Dean wasn't going to deal with it, if Dean wasn't going to face facts, he would.

Dean got into the car and started it up.

"That was Ellen, she wants us to stop by the Roadhouse."

"She say why?" Sam questioned.

"No."

"And you didn't ask?" He questioned again, sort of surprised.

"No, I didn't. It's not like we have plans." Sam shrugged in response. "Besides, drinks and lodging are on her, and right now, that sounds good to me."

"Okay," Sam agreed, with another shrug. Dean glanced at him and stepped on the gas. Just keep his mind off this shit, and he'll be okay. Dean convinced himself as he snuck another quick look at his brother. Get him to the Roadhouse, get a couple of drinks in him, and see if you can't get him to relax a little, to forget about all this shit he's neck deep in.

Ten minutes time allowed Sam an opportunity to contemplate, and Dean the opportunity to catch that the Impala was low on gas. He pulled her into a station, and jumped out to fill her up. At around a quarter of a tank, Sam got out of the car, and headed away.

"Where you goin'?" Dean asked quickly. Sam turned slowly, hands in pockets, eyes desolate and depressed.

"Bathroom," he said simply, then turned and walked away.

Dean tapped his fist on the gas pump, impatiently urging it to go faster. He hadn't said anything, but something was wrong, something was brewing, and the anxiety crept up into Dean so fast that he popped the pump out at half a tank, and rushed himself after his brother.

Dean again came to a closed men's room door. This scenario was becoming suggestively repetitive. He braced himself against the cold chill that traveled his shoulders, and pushed into the room unannounced.

Dean's breath quickened to match his brother's.

Sam stood with his back pressed into the corner of the small, filthy walled, room. His face was wet, and he held his head in one hand, as his other hand clutched at his chest seemingly trying to push air into it.

Dean wanted it to be another vision, but that was bullshit; he knew this was no vision. This was something else that had its ominous grip on his brother, the same thing that had kept him to the ground at the graveyard, the same thing that had slammed him to the gravel by the car. Dean stood frozen, unsure how to approach, then Sam looked up.

Dean thought that the glance he would receive from Sam when he discovered the intrusion would be one of contempt, one that would sharply will his older brother from the room. On the contrary, the look Dean received was one of desperation, one that snapped Dean from his fixed spot on the floor and pulled him forward, granting him permission to fill the role of big brother he was slowly regaining permission to play.

Dean grabbed Sam by the arms and helped to hold him up. Sam was barely breathing, taking in virtually no air, and in result, he trashed his upper body hard against the wall, and gripped his fingers tight and digging into Dean's jacket, pulling, begging for air.

"Sammy… listen to me… you have to calm down!" Dean removed a hand from Sam's arm and once again grasped him by the face. He stared him down, knowing the only thing which could possible get air into his brother's lungs would be Sam's own self control over his panic. "Sam, calm down… and just let yourself breath."

Sam shook his head in contest, he knew he was already too far gone. Sam's eyes flickered shut as his body relaxed and he began to slide down the wall.

"Sam!" Dean tried to hold him up, but it was pointless, so he slowly moved his hands with the weight until his brother was sitting, back still to the wall, head flopped, calm and unconscious.

Dean took in the silence of the room. All he could hear was his own panicked breathing. He moved his face to his brother's, and relaxed only slightly when he felt Sam's warm, repetitive breath against his cheek. Dean sighed away his fear and crouched to the floor in front of his brother.

If the situation followed pattern, Sam would be waking up in a couple of minutes, breath under control, emotions flaring. Dean needed to be ready; Dean didn't think he could ever be ready.

What the hell are you gonna do with him? He panicked. He won't talk to you; you won't talk to him. You need to confront him. You need to confront him on everything.

Dean's eyes fell to Sam's lower left arm. He sniffed the tears into the back of his throat, and glancing his appropriately haunting setting, lifted Sam's arm into his hands. He swallowed hard and shoved the sleeve of Sam's jacket and shirt up to his elbow, then turned his arm over to reveal Sam's wrist. Dean shuttered as his eyes hit the scars. He sucked his breath in and sealed his mouth shut with tight, tense, lips. He had known for weeks, but had never been able to confirm, not with physical proof, not until now.

Dean let himself cry as he brushed his thumb over the four lines of raised skin. It was true, everything he had remembered, everything he had tried not to remember.

All he had wanted that morning was to re-bandage Sam's cut. He had stood by the car, asked Sam for his arm, explained that where Gordon had sliced him needed better bandaging, and then unwittingly pulled the current bandage away:

The look, the knife, the cut, the mirror, the sink, the floor, the blood, the lock, the screaming with no response, the run to his father, and then finally, help.

Help, except Sam had been standing next to him begging, begging to stay…

Dead.

Dean brushed the tears away and sucked it up, he needed to look fine, composed when his brother woke in the next couple of minutes. He would need to talk to him, to confront him, and not only on the hospital, but the pills, and the punch.

I can't… I can't. Dean pressed the palm of his hand furiously into his head as he freaked. He's not gonna listen to you. He doesn't want you anymore. He did… he came to you that fucking day in the junkyard, but you couldn't, could you? You couldn't just help him… talk to him. And now…

No! Why? Dean questioned his brother. Why the hell did he do it? Take that kind of fucking risk? Not just to save me. He's hurting, and hurting himself, and I can't… I can't help him… I can't ask him. He'll only push me further away. You need to move slowly, you need to move cautiously. He's skittish and he'll bolt.

Damn you Dean! He turned on himself. Cut the shit! You know what this is about! You're scared, and you're weak, and you fucking bastard, you still can't give him what he needs! You god damn get your act together so you can give him what he needs…

"Fuck," Dean cut the word at himself with an inflicting bite.

Dean despised himself for running from it. He couldn't. He couldn't take the path which lay so clearly before him. Dean sunk into himself and clutched at his scalp. When his brother woke, he would not be confronting him.

Dean looked into his empty rock glass, thanked it for diluting his problems, and let his thoughts prick to smaller issues which had more recently pressed his mind. Dean recalled the look in Ellen's eyes, the glance she had shot him as Sam spilled his guts not just about the other children, but about himself.

Jo honey, better break out the whisky instead…

That was Ellen's response. Although he had to admit, it was a good one, but it would only solve their problems for the night.

Dean reached again for the bottle of Jack. As his fingers loosely grasped its neck, the bottle was pulled away and replaced behind the counter.

"Dean," Ellen gave him a stern look. "Lord knows you boys needed the break, but now you've had it. Best get your brother and yourself to bed." Dean stared at her, a mix of irritation and rebellion holding him steady.

"I'm fine where I am," he replied.

"Yeah, well… your brother's not." Ellen took Dean's empty glass out of his craving hand. "And the bar… it's closed." Dean sighed and gave in, she was a fucking hard ass to the end, and he was beginning to think that whatever falling out she and his father might have had, was not all down to John's stubbornness.

Dean slid his ass from the stool, and grabbed hold of the bar as his unsteady feet hit the floor. He puffed out a deep breath, then turned.

"Dean…" Ellen's voice came again. He shifted himself groggily back to the bar to find Ellen sliding a key across the dark wood. "Outback… the room with the beds is occupied, but there's another one with a couple of cots. Sleep there." Dean picked up the key and focused on her long enough to almost like her.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it," she said with a slight smile, then turned and continued to close down the bar.

Dean steadied himself. He wasn't sure if he was more drunk than tired, or tired than drunk, but the shift back and forth between the two seemed to be working for the moment, so he went with it. Dean had been sitting on that stool for at least two out of the four hours they had been drinking and really wasn't sure when the last time he had turned around was. He scanned the tables and chairs for his brother. Things had been calm between them after his brother had woken up in the small gas station bathroom. Dean had made sure Sam was okay, and had gotten him to the car. He had kept it simple, and Sam seemed grateful for that. Now Dean had a different situation, he needed to find Sam, and well… he was drunk. Since he could only focus a few feet in front of himself, Dean moved towards the first figure he saw.

Ash was sitting on the floor, his back against a game machine, one hand hugging the neck of a warm bottle, the other hand held out in front of his face, fingers waving around mystically as if he were about to perform a magic trick. Dean just stared at him blankly.

"My fingers never leave my hand…" Ash pointed out in a scholarly tone.

"Nope… not from where I stand." Dean blinked and rubbed his eyes. "You seen Sam?"

"Many a time my mullet-less friend… many a time…."

"Do you see him now?"

"Back corner table… I tied his sleeves to the center post after the bastard beat me at darts seven games in a row."

"Thanks." Dean shuffled over, and sure enough, there was Sam, passed out face down on the small circular table, arms pulled under it, the ends of his sleeves knotted together around the center post of the table. Dean smirked and shook his head feeling slightly empty at the disappointment he hadn't been the one responsible. Maybe Ash is brilliant. Dean strolled up to the table and spoke loudly.

"Sammy!" Sam stirred slightly at the sound of his name. "Sammy… what you doing all the way back here in the corner?"

"Nobody puts Baby in a corner!" Sam blurted almost incoherently.

"Yeah, okay Jennifer Grey… you've had enough. Come on. Up! Up!" Sam squirmed slightly, then jolted sort of awake. He abruptly sat up, but the way his arms were tied quickly jerked him back hard into the table with a slam! "Ouch…." Dean squinted. "That had to hurt." Big brother knelt beneath the table and untied Sam's sleeves. "Okay Sammy… you're good now. You can get up."

"No… no get up…" Sam mumbled. "Table needs me…"

"I'm sure the table would love to take you home for the night, but I got dibs." Dean reached down and pulled Sam to his feet, he strung Sam's left arm over his shoulders, and started the two of them moving. Sam followed the motion, his eyes bouncing open often enough to relay a flipbook visual of Ash, who was now exploring the wonder of waving both hands in front of his face.

"Look Dean, his fingers never leave his hands…" Sam shared as he let his weight drag.

"Right… I know."

"Never…"

"Ya-huh. Keep movin'." Dean kept them going through the bar, out the back, and to the room Ellen had designated. He fumbled the key into the lock, and pushed open the door. It was a small room, the better part of it designated for storage, but sure enough, two cots lined with blankets and pillows were set side by side in its center. Dean maneuvered Sam to the one closest to the door. He sat him down, then knelt and took off his kid brother's shoes and jacket while Sam's torso seemed to hover in an upright position.

"Why are you undressing me?" Sam questioned with his eyes closed.

"'Cause it's easier than undressing myself," Dean responded honestly.

"You weren't serious about having dibs on me over the table, were you?" Sam joked from his drunken stupor. Dean smirked, and shook his head.

"Shut up and lie down," Dean said, as he pushed his brother back onto the cot.

"I knew it… you are gonna take advantage of me," Sam persistent. Dean ignored him except for a small, unbalancing, roll of his eyes, then Sam whispered… "Be gentle."

"Sam!" Dean freaked, as his brother burst out giggling.

"Dude, you're such a homophobe."

"Homophobe? Try… incest-a-phobe!" Dean blurted in an incoherent panic.

"That's not a word," Sam argued, a slight giggle coating his voice.

"Well it is NOW! I'm making it a word!"

"Whatever…" Sam said, settling in.

"Yeah… whatever…" Dean pulled the blanket up over his brother, landing his hands on Sam's shoulders. "Shut your eyes and get some sleep."

"Are my eyes open?" Sam questioned. Dean leaned up over him to check.

"No… sorry… I meant shut your mouth and get some sleep."

"Oh…" Sam said in recognition. Dean scrubbed a hand across his face trying to wake up a little, as he pushed himself up with the other. "Dean?" Sam questioned quietly. Dean looked back down at his brother, who was now gazing up at him through the dark, all remnants of the giggles gone.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"I um…" Sam began hesitantly as he too tried to keep awake. "I'm sorry… about Ellen… I mean, about telling Ellen… about me." Dean held his somewhat woozy eye contact with his brother and let him speak. "I know you weren't exactly happy I did that." Sam could tell his brother wasn't about to respond so he continued. "I… it felt good though… ya know? To tell someone… to just be honest about it." Dean glanced away as his features tensed with worry, then turned back and nodded, attempting to pretend he understood. Sam didn't buy into it, he knew his brother was concerned. Sam's eyes dropped shut, but he shook his current state away and fought to keep talking. "You're worried aren't you? Worried another hunter is gonna peg me as part of the problem… as supernatural… and come after me." Sam opened his eyes, revealing all his cards.

Dean was so drunk and tired he wasn't sure how he was still standing, or hearing for that matter, but if anything was enough to sober him up, it was the evident overload of emotion in Sam's eyes.

"Nobody's coming after you, Sam." Dean noted the lack of change in his brother's eyes… Sam needed more. "And I'm not mad at you," he added. As soon as Dean's words entered Sam's head he seemed to calm. He nodded loosely, and within moments his eyes shut as he slipped into full alcoholic oblivion.

Dean stared at him for a moment, attempting to contain what he was feeling. It's just the alcohol, he told himself. It's just the alcohol. Dean rubbed the back of his neck and stumbled around Sam to the other cot. He kept himself standing, yet swaying, as he looked from his cot, to his brother, to the door.

Dean grunted as he awkwardly reached down and picked up the long cot complete with blankets and falling pillow. He stumbled it around Sam, banging into everything near his path, then dropped it clumsily between his brother and the door. As the cot came to the floor, so did Dean. His time of standing for the night was at an end, so he shifted to his hands and knees and crawled back for his pillow. He threw it to the cot, then went to Sam. He reached under Sam's blanket and stripped his brother of two weapons, a knife and a gun. He crawled groggily back to his own cot, arranged the knife under his pillow, then pulled a second gun from his jacket and laid both guns out on the floor in perfect reaching distance. He pulled his jacket off, and tossed it on a nearby box, then drunkenly double checked the gun he planned to keep on his body. When he was sure it was loaded and dangerous, he laid back onto his pillow, dragged his legs up off of the floor, and pulled the blanket over himself.

Dean reached one hand under his head, under his pillow, and grasped it around the handle of the knife, then exhaled long and slow knowing he couldn't keep his eyes open more than another half minute. He rolled his head against the pillow, glanced at his brother, then let his drunkenness seriously get the better of him.

"Aw hell…" Dean pulled Sam's arm out from under the blanket and draped it across his own chest. He gripped the knife tightly in one fist, and Sam's hand tightly in his other, then turned his head to face the door, and let himself fall mostly asleep.

Thanks for reading! If you're inclined to - hit the little button and let me know your thoughts… remember the good old days of the angst-o-meter? Damn that seems long ago!

Thanks,
Kate