I'm starting to sound repetitive, but as usual - thanks to all who read and reviewed, and to Melja for her usual help and support : )

Here is chapter 7 - as probably anticipated, it tags 'The Usual Suspects'.

Again - dialogue in quotes and italics is directly from the episode, and will hopefully help you know where we're at.

Before we start I just want to give a heads up that this is the second to last chapter. Chapter 8 will be the close of this story - and will hopefully bring some resolve.
I hope to have it posted this Monday - no later than Tuesday, and really hope you all show up for the end!

Okay -so enough with the talk - on with the story…

Decisions In Blood

CH 7

Sam sat on the hood of the car in front of the Roadhouse and watched his brother finish talking to Jo, then unexpectedly turn, and head back into the bar. Something was going on. Sam wasn't sure what, but he was sure he need to know what. He stood and walked out into the middle of the field, out to Jo. As he reached her, he hesitated for a moment, then placed a hand on her shoulder. She turned, slightly startled, and when she saw Sam, brushed the tears out of her eyes. Sam's demeanor immediately softened, and he shifted into his concerned interrogation mode, the one he usually saved for people who had just lost a loved one, but needed to tell a complete stranger about the things in their house which went bump in the night.

"Jo, hey… what's going on?" Sam asked. Jo scanned the area.

"Where'd your brother go?" She questioned.

"Back into the bar," Sam responded. Jo's eyes when wide, as she realized he had probably gone to talk to her Mother.

"Damn, he really is twisted," she blurted.

"Jo…" Sam warned, making it clear he didn't want games, he wanted answers.

"My Dad… and your Dad." Jo cut to the chase. "They were on a hunt together. Your Dad messed up… my Dad died," she finished. Sam's eyes darkened.

A crash came from inside the bar and both of them turned to see Dean push though the door, completely hell bent. He briefly glanced in their direction.

"Sam, if you want a ride you'd better move your ass!" Dean shouted. Sam turned back to Jo and they exchanged a glance. Without another word, Sam took off towards the Impala. He ran straight to the driver's window and knocked on the glass. Dean rolled the window partially down, and barked at his brother without looking at him.

"Get in!"

"Dean…" Sam tried.

"I said, get in!" Dean repeated with a tempered growl as he started the car. Sam's eye's narrowed, he dropped his hands from the glass, shook his head, and quickly got himself inside the Impala only moments before Dean pulled her away.

They sat in silence as Dean tore his car down the long dirt road, kicking a massive dust cloud out behind her tail. Sam side swiped his eyes toward his brother, careful not to move any part of his body during the course of his evaluation. He gave it several more minutes, then allowed his urge to take over. Sam turned to face the driver seat.

"Dean," he spoke up. Receiving no response, he went again. "Dean," he repeated. Dean kept his eyes on the road, and his mouth shut.

Sam had had enough. He threw one arm over the back of his seat, and the other onto the dashboard, puffing out his testosterone in preparation to do battle.

"Dean!" Sam shouted rough and loud in a tone that required obedience. Dean completely ignored him. "Dean! Stop the damn car, we need to talk!"

Dean held his forward stare and pressed the gas pedal hard to the floor in response.

Sam ignored his brother's avoidance and cut straight at the jugular. "Look, I'm sorry you pissed off Ellen, and I'm sorry you think you somehow hurt Jo, but this has nothing to do with us! It was before our time, Dean. Whatever happened, it was Dad's mistake, not ours!" Sam insisted fiercely. "So cut the crap attitude, and quit punishing yourself over it!"

Contradicting his prior response of silence induced speed, Dean turned the wheel of the Impala with a sharp jerk to his left. The car followed with the motion of his arms and swerved off road onto the rugged gravel shoulder. Dean slammed his foot to the break; they jolted to a harsh stop. The oldest Winchester turned to his kid brother, his temper flaring, his eyes bearing the brunt of what it meant to be head of his family. He panted violently, as he tried to contain the rage which had suddenly consumed him.

Still… he said nothing.

Sam was right, whatever had happened on that hunt, had nothing to do with him, but it wasn't the hunt he was punishing himself over.

Dean stared at his brother. How can I talk to him? How can I talk to him when I can't save him? When I can't save myself?

"What?!" Sam finally shouted into the silence. "What? Just say it!" He challenged. Dean turned away and punched his fist brutally into the steering wheel. It landed dead center; it was an inadequate misplacement of his anger. The horn choked out a mournful honk in response.

"Fuck!" He shouted.

Dean grabbed at the handle of his door, shoved it open, and hastily got out. He slammed it shut, and walked away.

Sam stayed in the car, staring through the window at his brother, who was now standing several feet from the car in a visibly frustrated stance. He didn't really want to go after him, there was something about Dean's mood that suddenly troubled him, that suddenly got his voices going. Sam brought a hand to his temple and pressed two fingers to the area just above his left eye; his breath was increasing; it was coming. He still couldn't explain what it was, but he had learned to recognize its approach, and knew if he stayed put in the car, it would consume him in a matter of moments.

Sam panicked and grabbed at the door handle. The instant he touched it, he felt a hand grasp like a claw into this shoulder. Sam turned back into the car, startled. Dean was in the driver seat. He hadn't heard the door open, there hadn't been enough time for his brother to get in the car, yet there he was.

"Dean?" Sam eyed him with a perplexed confusion.

"Goin' somewhere Sammy?" Dean asked suspiciously.

"I… uh…" Sam stuttered, "was coming to talk to you."

"Were you? You wanna talk?" Dean questioned menacingly.

"Uh… yeah…" Sam whispered.

"What do you wanna talk about, Sammy?" Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's left hand. He twisted it harshly, forcing it palm up, then shoved Sam's sleeve away in an action which abruptly exposed his scars. "You wanna talk about this?!" Dean shouted with a stern fierceness.

"No… no…" Sam shook his head.

"Is this what you want?" Dean pushed the scars into Sam's face. "Is it, Sam?"

"No… I…" Sam whimpered as he retracted in shame.

"Is this what you want? Here… let me help you!" Dean pulled a small knife from his pocket, and sliced it across Sam's wrist.

"Dean, no… please… please," Sam begged, his emotions torn and tangled in his brother's cruel words and actions. Dean cut three more times, the last time he stopped and held the blade against Sam's skin. He pushed it further and further into the flesh. Sam soaked in the slow sting of the blade as it tore clean through his muscle, then scraped rough against the gritty texture of his bones. Dean leaned in on him and spoke with a growling undertone.

"Let me help you," he forced.

Sam's breath caught short in his throat, and his head nodded off to the side. His eyes shut for a instant before he caught himself and jerked back awake. He threw his arms out to his sides and glanced the interior of the car in a panic.

Dean was gone; Sam was alone.

Sam pushed his left sleeve up, his arm was fine, only the original scars shined in the skin. He looked out the window and found his brother standing exactly where he had walked to. What the fuck? He thought, trying to still the violent shake which was working its way through his body. What the fuck?

Sam stared out at his brother. Dean wasn't the one who had cut him, Dean wasn't the one who had tormented him with the secret he had struggled so hard to keep silent. Sam stared blankly through the glass; Dean was merely the one who was never going to forgive him.

Dean sat in the holding room of the police station, handcuffed to the table. He had realized the name 'Dana Shulps' was actually an anagram; what they needed to be investigating was a street, Ashland. He had written his findings on a small sheet of paper, along with two names which would instruct his brother it was time for him to split this joint. The moment his lawyer left the room with said piece of paper, Dean realized that if he wanted Sam to escape, he needed to give the kid more than a scrap of notebook containing six words, he needed to give Sam time.

Dean could only see one way to provide that, he gazed at the reflective sheet of glass in front of him.

"Hey!" He shouted at it obnoxiously. "Somebody tell Tommy Lee Jones I'm done blaming the one armed man! I wanna confess!" He smirked. That should get 'em in here faster than a free box of donuts.

Dean sat back and waited. Now, he thought, what the fuck am I suppose to confess? Dean drifted for a moment, drifted to where he shouldn't have. His smug expression faded. He reached up and rubbed a hand against his chest, stopping as he felt the impression of his Father's dog tags beneath the fabric of his shirt. Dean's lower lip trembled as he released a shaky breath. I suppose I could always tell the truth, he concluded. Dean cleared his mind of everything but his confession:

My name is Dean Winchester, he stated clearly in his head. And I'm a murderer. My Father is dead because of me… and my brother… there's nothing I can do to stop it.

The door opened abruptly, and in an uncontrolled swing, slammed deafeningly into the wall. Dean jerked from his cosmic confession. He turned toward Detective Sheridan, and knowing damn well the guy had it in for him, decided better to go with a slightly different truth.

Sam read the small scrap of paper and promptly interpreted what he was being told to do. No problem, he had come up with a strategy of exit within the first five minutes of entering the room. The only thing Sam hadn't figured, was how to get rid of the uselessly dedicated guy in the blue suit. Sam broke out of his thoughts when he heard the door open.

"We need you… with the other one," Diana instructed the man from the public defender's office. And with that, the room was all Sam's.

Sam smirked, he knew damn well his sudden lack of supervision was the work of his brother. Sam stood and walked to the window. He unlocked it, and with a hard shove, brought it open. Sam didn't even bother to look out it, he turned, walked back to the desk, and crawled underneath. It was a ridiculously tight fit, which was exactly why no one would look there for him. Sam stretched a long arm out and dragged the chair up against the desk. He pulled it as far in as he could, just enough so that it was positioned to block him from view, yet leave enough space under the desk for the likes of himself.

Now all he had to do… was wait.

Sam held his head against his knees and wondered how long he would need to hold the contortionist-like position. However long it timed, he would wait, he would escape. He knew what sort of shit he was getting himself into, legally. He knew that depending on how things landed, he was taking his first steps down a steep, out of control decent, which could make crawling back up and eventually attending law school a clear-cut impossibility. I can't care about that anymore. He told himself. It can't matter. All you're losing is the life you wanted. But Dean… they could legally fucking murder him, and you're the only one that can stop it. So stop it.

Sam shut his eyes and felt his knees press against his forehead. He hadn't sat like this since that day in the junkyard, since that day he'd hoped Dean would come to him. Fuck… fuck… Sam pressed his head hard into his knees and wished for his brother's voice knowing damn well it was locked away in some nearby room, knowing damn well that if he didn't hold himself together and get the hell out of here, Dean's voice would stay locked in that room, or worse.

Sam's eyes opened as he sensed someone approaching. He listened to the sound of the door opening, and then abrupt and brief silence as the room was discovered seemingly empty.

"What the hell… where is he?" Sam heard Pete's voice as its proximity shifted from one side of the room to the other. As anticipated, he could see legs by the window. "What he do? The fire escape's way over here-- what?"

Fuck, Sam panicked, thinking he'd been found. He shut his eyes like a child playing hide and seek, believing if he couldn't see, he couldn't be seen.

"These two guys." Diana's voice drifted against his nerves.

"Hilts and McQueen, what is that?" Pete's voice cut impatiently, as it reassured Sam he was still invisible.

"Hilts is Steve McQueen's character in 'The Great Escape'."

Sam smiled. Somehow he could hear it, somewhere deep behind the instinct to do her job, Diana was slightly amused. Dean had that affect on people, you didn't necessarily want to like him, you were just compelled to act against your better judgment. Sam knew he always was.

"Come on." Sam perked up as he heard Pete proclaim his exiting statement. He gave it about thirty seconds, then cautiously and quietly came out from under the desk.

Sam cracked his neck with a sharp head jerk to the right, and stepped to the door which had been left slightly ajar. He had one quick stop to make. He needed some photos from crime scenes and bookings, but after he lifted what he needed, Sam would be surprised at how easy he found it to walk straight out of the precinct.

Sam hadn't been at the hotel long, possibly only half an hour. He sat at the computer, glanced at a couple of the photos he had stolen, and drifted into his head. He was getting nowhere, and nowhere wasn't an option. Dean was depending on him. If I don't piece this together… I'll lose him… I'll lose him all over again.

Sam's breath hitched and shot like a flare into his head. A knock beat into the door, and Sam rose to answer it. He pulled it open without speculating who it could be; who would be coming to see him, when no one should know where he was?

"Dean?" Sam questioned, as he moved out of the way and let his brother enter the room. He shut the door behind him, then continued to question. "What are you doing here? How the hell did you escape?" Dean turned and stared at him with a calm eeriness.

"I would have been here sooner," he explained, "but I had to stop to pick something up." He held up a crumpled, brown paper lunch bag. It was stuffed full.

"Um… okay," Sam said. Without another word Dean walked into the bathroom, flipped on the light, and emptied the contents of the bag into the sink.

Sam followed into the small room. He stared down into the sink, and found the white basin full with bottles of prescription pills. Sam glanced back up at his brother.

"What's all this?" He questioned.

"It's what you want, Sam," Dean explained.

"What?" Sam asked innocently.

"The pills," Dean said, his tone harsh. He reached into the sink and picked up a fistful of bottles. "Isn't this what you want?"

"I… um…" Sam backed towards the tub as Dean advanced on him. "No… I…" Sam shook his head as he stepped and fell against the edge of the tub. Dean immediately grabbed him by the shirt with his free hand and pushed him the rest of the way. Sam reached out in a panic, but one hand dragged along the slick tiles, while the other only ripped the shower curtain down as he fell.

"Is this what you want?!" Dean shoved a kneed into Sam's chest to keep him from getting up, then opened a bottle of pills. "Let me help you," Dean said smugly.

Sam struggled, but Dean was shockingly strong, he held his little brother down, forced his mouth open, and dumped the bottle of pills into his throat. Sam choked, lurched, and struggled to keep from swallowing, but as soon as one bottle was emptied, Dean began with another, then another. Sam tried to argue, to scream, but the pills filled his mouth and all he could do was fight to breath as the bitter, melting tablets dripped their horrid toxin down his throat.

Dean yanked Sam close, and forced a tight hand over little brother's mouth.

"Let me help you."

Sam's breath fixed in his throat, and his vision blackened. He instantly startled awake, the sound of a stifled cry opening wide and loud into the porcelain covered room. Sam sucked in his surroundings with a clear breath of air.

Dean was gone; his mouth was empty, no pills.

"Fuck." Sam shuttered as he pushed himself up over the edge of the tub. "Wh- what the f- fuck 's happening to me?" Sam released a stifled sob, then cut his frailty short. "No, no." He shook his head and wiped his eyes. "You can't do this… you can't!"

Sam pushed himself up and bolted back into the bedroom. He made it as far as the bed, then his knees gave way and he buckled to the floor. His frailty had hit him hard, and allowed himself to drop his face into folded arms on the edge of the mattress. He needed a minute to figure this out.

It's just guilt. It isn't visions… it isn't real… it just… it felt so damn real… so fucking… fuck! God I wanna tell him… I can't hide this… I can't… he can't… he… he's so angry… about Dad… if he knew I… you have to protect him. You have to contain it.

Sam lifted his head from the mattress and turned himself to sit on the floor, shoulders against the end of the bed. He dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling, slowly… he released a pained laugh.

"What am I doin'? I'm stronger than this." Sam lifted his head, cleared his mind, and brought himself to a calm. Whatever it is, it's progressing. You had two of these… delusions, but now you know. You're prepared. It happens again… you deal with it. You just fucking deal with it. Now get up, and get back to work.

Sam stood, walked to the table, and set back to work via the laptop.
Nothing was going to rattle him… nothing.

When Sam heard the second knock on his hotel door he didn't know what to expect, but as earlier decided, he held himself calm, and showed no sign of concern. Luckily, this time when he answered, it was not his brother, not another delusion, it was just a real live person; it was Diana. At first he was taken aback, then he realized she could never have found him this quickly on her own. If she was here, it was because Dean had sent her. Sam stepped back and let her enter.

Twenty minutes later they were at Ashland. It took a few minutes to break into the supply building they deemed relevant, and Sam couldn't help but smirk as Diana eyed his quickness with popping the lock. They cautiously entered the supply house, and at first glance, Sam really wasn't sure were to begin.

"So what exactly are we looking for?" Diana asked the experienced hunter.

"I'll let you know when we find it," Sam admitted freely. He knew what he was doing, and certainly knew more than her, but same as a police investigation, a lead was only a lead, and nothing more until something was found. He had no idea what was to be found.

Sam lurked through the dark, junk filled room, keeping Diana behind him, keeping alert. He scanned the area with his flashlight and landed the beam on an old set of stairs. Sam stopped and stared. He needed to go up them. His mind went into hyper-focus, and without a word he began to ascend them. He slowly crept upwards leaving Diana in the lower room. As he reached the top he stepped forward a bit, and his eyes focused on a door. Sam walked to it, and pushed it open with his casted hand. He moved inside, letting the door swing mostly shut behind him, and continued to inspect his new surroundings.

It looked just like downstairs, half filled shelves, junk, darkness. Sam stepped fully into the space and towards the opposite wall. Something quickly caught his attention. Sam reached forward and touched the long, thin, metal object which was resting upright against the concrete wall. He took it into his hand, grasped it firmly, and picked it up.

Sam's breath hitched in his throat as he lifted the crowbar towards his face. Suddenly, he had a bad feeling about this. Sam lowered the crowbar to his side, paused, then turned around.

"Fuck," he gasped under his breath. Dean was standing directly in front of him. Before Sam could blink, Dean's punch hit him square in the face.

Sam fell back into the concrete wall, dropping the crowbar to the floor with a loud clank. He looked up into his brother's eyes. It's not real, he reminded himself. He's not real. Sam's head smacked with a crack against the wall as Dean's second punch hit.

"Hey Sammy. Is this what you want?" Dean scowled as he cracked his knuckles and prepared for another hit.

"You're not real," Sam insisted, placing his hands out in a defensive manner. "You're not real."

"Really… well then this shouldn't hurt." Dean smirked, advanced on his brother, and threw repetitive punches with relentless force. He beat Sam in the face, then the chest, then closed with one last rough upper cut to the gut. Sam braced himself against the wall, one hand to the concrete, one hand to his chest.

It hurt.

Real or delusional, it fucking hurt like a bitch.

Sam raised a hand to his face and brushed the blood off his lip. He wasn't going to let it get the better of him, and he wasn't going to play into it, he was simply going to survive it until it passed. Sam let his hand drop. He looked his brother in the eyes and spoke from his gut.

"You're not… fucking… real!"

Dean stepped forward and grabbed him by the throat with one hand. Sam struggled to stay conscious as he felt his air restrict.

"Is this what you want?" Dean continued to question. Sam tried to speak, to repeat his new little mantra, but he couldn't seem to get anything through his lips except the small gasps of air which were keeping him alive. Dean slowly reached to the floor and lifted the crowbar up into his hands. As Sam realized what his brother was doing, he finally began to weaken, emotionally. He knew that crowbar, he knew the anger it held, the pain it could transfer in the severity of its impact.

Dean let go of Sam's throat and stepped away as he gripped the metal rod with both hands and swung it behind his head like a bat.

"Is this what you want?"

"No… no…" Sam pleaded, as what he interpreted as both resentment and disappointment seemed to enter his older brother's eyes.

"Let me help you." Dean whipped the crowbar toward his baby brother's skull.

All Sam could do was flinch and throw his arms up to block. Instead of the smashing pain of impact, Sam felt his head go heavy and nod harshly off his neck. He quickly jerked himself to alertness and realized the impact never came. Sam pushed out two harsh breaths and looked out in front of him. He was alone, crowbar abandoned to the floor, blood gone from his face.

Sam shook it off, quickly, trying to pretend like he had succeeded in his plan of holding steady.

"See… this one… no problem," Sam joked to himself sarcastically. He ran a hand through his hair, relieved it was over, then jumped, startled as hell when he heard his name suddenly yelled from below.

"Sam!" The panicked voice shouted again; Diana was in trouble.

"Shit…" without catching a break, Sam took off into a run back down the stairs, reluctantly recapping the experience in his mind. That sucked, Sam admitted. But you survived it, and be honest with yourself, that crowbar… it can't get much worse.

Sam watched as Diana put a bullet through her partner's heart. It was the second shot fired in the past minute, and it snapped him out of the harsh disquiet his mind had entered as he had stood by and patiently waited to see if his brother would be executed.

Sam tried to shake it off, everything that had, and had not happened. He steadied himself, and walked not to Dean, but to Diana. He stooped down, and looked at her with his usual concern.

"You alright?" He asked, gently. Diana turned toward him with strict intent in her eyes.

"I'd check on your brother if I were you," she instructed vacantly. Sam was slightly taken aback, but as told, he turned to check on his brother.

Dean was gone, gone from the spot where he had sat on the ground. Sam's eyes shifted, and he quickly turned around to find not only Diana missing, but also Pete's body. Sam stood numbly, he hadn't felt his breath hitch, he didn't know what was going on.

Sam slowly walked to the spot where his brother had been, paused briefly as he eyed the empty ground, then turned and walked into the woods. He couldn't explain it, couldn't understand where he was headed, or why, he was just compelled to go. Sam walked a short distance until he came to a small clearing.

Directly in front of him, on the opposite side, his focus was drawn to a specific tree which was significantly larger than the others. Its thick branches reached out into the clearing, and canopied the area above his head. He looked up, gazed calmly at the deep blue sky, at the purple night clouds that wisped in bunches and stringed across the moon. Sam felt a cold breeze curl around his chest and up the back of his neck. He shivered, wrapped his arms around himself, and with unobserved apprehension, stepped closer to the base of the large tree.

Sam came close enough to touch it. He extended his arm, stretched out his hand, and found he had just enough length to brush his finger tips against the bark, except it didn't feel like bark. It felt like flesh, warm and soft, emoting a primal need to be touched.

Sam pulled his hand away as his sensory system struggled to make peace with the grossly contradicting feeling. Suddenly taken by a sharp desire to flee, he stepped backwards into the area he had come from. Before he could turn, he felt himself collide with a bump into something that ran the full length of his back. It softly gave way with his movement, and Sam's feeling of disconcert widened, as he knew nothing had been in that area when he approached. Sam took a small step forward and turned around.

Dean hung cold and grey, eyes shut, suspended from a heavy overhead branch, via a noose.

Sam stumbled backwards as terror infected his system and spread through his body and mind like a rapid, ruthless disease. He tried to control himself. This isn't real, he attempted. It isn't re-- Sam's thought severed as he became consumed by a need to touch his brother, to reach out to him in death, as neither of them had reached out to each other in life.

Sam stretched outward just as he had with the tree. His fingers extended and came upon Dean's cheek. He brushed them downward, slowly… gently… keeping his connection, skin against skin.

This touch wasn't like the tree, it was cold… distant… dead.

Nothing more than flesh, flesh ready to rot off the bone because it had grown disconnected, because it had severed its attachment to what had once kept it alive.

A slow tear beaded under Dean's shut eye and dropped. It slid down his ashen skin and spread across Sam's fingers.

Sam looked directly into his brother's face; Dean opened his eyes wide and raw.

"Is this what you want?" His corpse asked. "Let me help you."

Sam released a terrified scream as the words brushed into his brain. He stumbled back into the trunk of the tree, and trembled in self-reproach as the truth hit him hard:

I'm killing him… I'm the problem… I'm killing my brother.

Sam dragged a hand up his chest and clutched at his throat. Slowly, he strengthened his grip and closed his air passage completely. He felt the warm skin of his neck turn cold and quiet beneath his hand.

He couldn't breath…
he didn't want to.

Probably don't need to say that I love to hear from you guys - but shit - I just said it. : (

Kate