Author's Note : A special thank you to BigPink for pointing out some errors in the last chapter! I try to keep the typos to a minimum, but they do slip in sometimes, so I'll try to be more careful about that.

I was really pleased (and shocked!) at the amount of reviews I got for the last chapter! Very, very nice to see that all of my hard work is appreciated, and that there really is interest in this story. For those of you adding me to story alert and still not reviewing... I see you! sob

Hehe, moving on, a ton of Impala cookies to you all. And yes, there will be some Dean POV soon.

Without further delay, chapter six!

--

Stifling a yawn, Sam scrubbed his eyes with his fingers, and tried to convince himself he wasn't tired. He'd pulled all nighters before - in college, on hunts, it was nothing new - but the added emotional drain was threatening to put him on his ass if he didn't slow down.

He'd spent the past few minutes hastily cleaning the room, disposing of the needles in a small box that had been in the bottom of the first aid kit for just that purpose for years. It had been a while since he'd needed to use it; needles were evidence that they could never afford to leave behind, but they were also rarely needed. Still, it served its purpose, and he tucked the syringes in his duffle bag, making a mental reminder to throw them in the next dumpster he saw. The rest of the drugs went into the dresser drawer, tucked inside a pair of socks so they didn't break, and then dismissed.

Once that was taken care of, he saw to Dean. It was still weird thinking about it, but dwelling on it only brought more questions to the surface, questions he wasn't ready to deal with yet. So he shoved them away and set about untying his brother.

He'd drifted off not long ago, no doubt thanks to the drugs. Sam felt uneasy, and checked his breathing, worried now. Maybe it had been stupid to pump him full of thiopentol, but he'd been operating under the assumption that it had been something supernatural. He knew what he'd done was dangerous, but he had no idea what the complications could be, or how bad. He'd have to wake him up every so often, just to make sure. Drugs, too many blows to the head...

Better not to think about it.

He stepped back, staring. He'd been too busy to notice any details, but now that he had a moment, he was finally able to really look at Dean. It was unsettling. He looked almost the same as he did before. He didn't allow himself to think about what that meant, but focused on his face instead. He didn't look any older, really, just tired and dirty. Maybe a little thinner, and his skin was definitely too pale, the dark smudges under his eyes standing out even among the dirt.

He sighed and got to work removing the catheter. The fact that he'd drugged his brother was almost easy to avoid, but now he found himself wondering why he'd had to. He didn't want to think about that, either, not yet.

Once the catheter was out, he dumped it in the bathroom trash and filled the empty ice bucket with water. Armed with that and a washcloth, he tackled the task of trying to clean him up a little. Dean was really dirty, but he did what he could, dabbing at the dried blood and dirt that covered his face. It wasn't perfect, but it was better, so he moved on.

The clothes were pretty much ruined, stained with dirt and blood; they would have to go. That wasn't what bothered him, though. It was the fact that there was so much of it he had no idea how to tell how much of it, if any, was Dean's.

He sighed and let the washcloth drop into the already dingy water of the ice bucket.

After a moment of contemplation, he decided he was going to have to cut it off. He retrieved the scissors from the first aid kit and slit the shirt up the middle.

He paused, frozen by what he saw.

"Holy..."

There was a fresh wound on his right side, and he realized quickly that Dean had carried the knife without a sheath. He'd drawn it in the fight, probably too fast to be careful, and knicked himself. The wound wasn't deep, wasn't even bleeding. That wasn't what had frozen him in place.

Dean had scars, just like Sam, just like every hunter did. It was inevitable that you picked some up along the way. But this was...God, this was new.

The tattoo, at once time a perfect match to the one on his own chest, was barely recognizable. Someone, or maybe something was more accurate, had tried to cut away the ink. The result was a mass of scar tissue that effectively destroyed the protective ward.

He swallowed hard, drawing his eyes away only to catalogue the thin scar that ran the length of his sternum. This one was different, fresher, but still way past healed, a thin raised line that spoke of deliberate precision.

An incision.

Jesus.

He tried to ignore them, to see past them and focus on the job at hand, but as he stared at the remains of the tattoo, his hands began to shake.

He set aside the scissors and took a deep breath, trying to calm down. It wasn't just the scars themselves. He knew the story behind most, if not all, of Dean's other scars. But these... he didn't know how he'd gotten them, or what he'd been through, and it was overwhelming him.

He felt the sting of tears, but refused to cry. He had more important things to do than sit around blubbering about things he had no control over.

Later, they could talk.

But now, he needed to act.

He set his jaw, and picked the washcloth up again. It might not be much, but for now, it was the best he could do.

--

He couldn't remember ever seeing a sky so blue, or grass so green. From where he lay in the open field, it was all he could see - blue, blue sky and lush green grass that cushioned his body. Dean folded his arms behind his head, tilting his face to the sky and sighing in content as the sun warmed his skin.

"What are you thinking, Dean?"

He smiled in reply. "Nothin'. That's the beauty of it."

His mother laughed, and turned his head to take in the sight of her. God, she was beautiful. She was standing a few feet away, wearing a white sun dress. Her hair was pulled back, making her look younger, almost angelic, even as the sky began to cloud over.

"It is beautiful," she agreed, but it was obvious that she was referring to the landscape, not a lazy afternoon. "Come dance with me, Dean."

He pushed himself to his feet, but stood there, shaking his head. "I don't dance, you know that."

She smiled at him, "Don't be silly, Dean... you used to dance with me all the time!"

"I did?"

She smiled and beckoned him closer.

"You were young," she said, pulling him into a swift, carefree dance across the grass. "I guess I shouldn't expect you to remember."

"Tell me," he urged, almost tripping over his own feet.

Mary Winchester laughed, not unkidly. "Oh, we'd dance all the time. Your father would come home from work some nights and I'd still be dancing you around the kitchen, dinner forgotten. I always thought he'd be mad, but he just laughed and told me he liked it better burnt . I swear, as long as I was happy, that man would eat cardboard."

Dean grinned back as they twirled. The breeze picked up, twisting around them as if it were a part of the dance.

"I'm so glad you're here, Dean," she said, stopping suddenly and pulling him into a tight embrace. "You won't leave me, will you?"

"No!" he said. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he held her, breathing in her scent, and imagined her holding him this way when he was a baby. "Of course not."

"Never," she added, and he nodded his agreement.

Dean pulled back slightly, but she didn't let go, reaching out a hand to gently touch his cheek. "Mom?"

She smiled, but her eyes were sad, and he saw the first flame begin to lick at her chin.

"Mom!"

He tried to pull away, but her grip was an iron vise that would not let him go. He felt the heat climbing their bodies, but still she held on to him, fire reflected in her eyes.

His senses were on overload, the scream that escaped her mouth deafening, the fire that encompassed them too bright. The smell of burning skin clogged his nostrils, and he gagged, tasting it in the back of his throat.

All of that was nothing compared to the pain he felt when the fire touched his skin.

--

Sam didn't expect much when he gently shook Dean awake. Since he'd fallen asleep - passed out - he hadn't so much as stirred. Not even when he took he had to pull the remnants of the jacket and shirt off his brother. He'd always been a light sleeper, so that alone was cause to worry.

Instead, it was Sam who got the rude awakening. The minute his hands touched Dean's arm his brother's eyes shot open and he was in motion. He coupled the movement with a hoarse scream, and the next thing Sam knew, he was on the floor. It took him a moment to realize Dean had flipped him, grabbing the offending arm to pull Sam over his body, and roll him easily onto the floor.

Dazed, he sat up.

"Dude, it's just me - " he started, somewhat angrily. He'd hit his elbow on the wall, and the tingling was fading, bringing with it the familiar pain of a bruised funny bone. He stopped when he didn't see his brother. "Dean?"

He pulled himself to his feet, still rubbing his sore elbow. There was no sign of Dean in the small room, so he headed to the bathroom, worried he might be having a bad reaction to the thiopentol.

He didn't find his brother hunched over the toilet, though. He was pressed into the space between the sink and the wall, head bent down and hidden by the arms he'd wrapped around his knees.

"Dean?"

There was no indication that he'd been heard.

Sam hesitated in the doorway, feeling out of place and at a loss. "You feeling sick?"

He hated the way his voice came out sounding like a scared little boy, but for the life of him, he couldn't seem to control it. He had his brother back. Things were supposed to be okay now. Maybe not normal, but their lives had always been a bit off. Something dark and hopeless welled up inside him, guilt and fear and all that hope turning to dread. This was uncharted territory, all of it, and he'd been stupid to think it would be that easy.

"Dean?" he asked again, taking a tentative step forward.

Bare shoulders tensed as his footfall echoed on the tile. Dean's knuckles were white, gripping his forearms so tightly Sam thought he was going to cut off the circulation.

"Dean, it's okay," he said, knowing the words were lame. They were all he had, so he went on. "It's me..."

He knelt down, keeping a few feet in between them, and reached out to put a hand on Dean's knee. Again the reaction was startling, but he'd expected it, and quickly withdrew his hand. In turn, Dean's head snapped up and he tried to scoot further back, his hands bracing on the floor when he met the wall's resistance. He was breathing loudly, sucking in gasps of air, eyes searching for an exit.

"It's okay," Sam said again, keeping what he hoped was a soothing tone. "You're okay, you're safe."

But the look in Dean's eyes was wild, reminding Sam of an animal caught in a trap. He had the unsettling feeling that he was that trap. He was the source of Dean's fear.

He kept still. If he stood, he'd only look more intimidating, so he kept to the crouch, trying to make himself appear as small and harmless as possible.

"It's okay," he repeated, practically whispering now. "I'm not gonna hurt you, Dean. You're safe here."

But it was clear he wasn't making a difference. If anything, Dean's breathing grew louder, and his eyes wider, more anxious. Where he'd been so careful to avoid Sam's gaze before, he was staring now, almost transfixed, directly at him.

There was no recognition.

"Come on, Dean, please," he pleaded, trying not to raise his voice. "Give me something here, man! I don't know what to do."

Dean's hand went to his tattoo in such a way Sam didn't think he was even conscious of the motion. Shaking fingers moved hesitantly, and when they met the scarring, they rested almost sadly. Sam watched those fingers rub gently at the remains of the tattoo, and he came to a realization.

Whether he'd mean to or not, Dean gave him an idea. He reached up to tug down the neck of his shirt, revealing his own tattoo. His fingers brushed against the amulet he always wore beneath his shirt, but it offered little comfort now. He didn't know what he was hoping for, but the sight seemed to calm his brother slightly - until he began shaking his head vehemently, ducking down to hide his face in his arms again.

He went down on his knees, reaching out to close the distance between them. "Dean, you're okay!"

This time he was prepared, and blocked the arms that swung his way, not trying to land punches, more wild attempts to push him away. At this point he didn't know how much his touch would help or hinder, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away. He felt tears course their way down his face, and knew that his heart was breaking, watching his brother struggle against him.

"Please," he sobbed, trying to grab Dean's arms. "I'm not going to hurt you! Please, you're my brother."

But this pale, scared creature huddled against the wall of a bathroom in a run-down motel was not the same man he'd known, and he had no idea how to get him back.

So even though it hurt, he pulled away.

Dean quieted almost immediately, watching him with anxious eyes, following him as he stood, and retreated to the room.

When he returned with the salt, he spoke in hard tones. "You don't think I am, do you?"

Your brother...

"Fine." He poured a line of salt across the threshold, set the box of salt just outside. He sat just outside the bathroom, leaning against the wall. "I'll stay here for now."

Dean peeked over his arms, watching him warily. Then, quickly, he scrambled into the bathtub.

The act would have made Sam laugh once upon a time. But now it only served to drive the message home. To his brother, Sam meant danger, something to put as much distance as possible between. Even if it was only a few feet and the rim of a bathtub.

"Go ahead," Sam said casually. "Test me."

The truth was, he wanted to hear his brother work those words from behind his lips. It would be a cold comfort, but he would take what he could get.

He didn't even try.

"I can cross that line anytime I want," Sam warned. "But I won't. And I'm not going anywhere until you're ready to."

--

Somewhere along the line, he'd managed to fall asleep, losing the waiting game. Now he had a hell of a crick in his neck and not much else to show for it. There was daylight trying to shine through the curtains, and he had no idea what time it was, or how long he'd been asleep.

Dean was still hugging his knees in the tub, watching his every move. Sam had no idea how much he'd slept, if at all, but judging by his bloodshot eyes, it wasn't much. He stretched, giving the appearance of disinterest, and checked his watch.

"Little after nine," he said out loud, in case Dean was wondering. His voice sounded loud, and he cleared his throat. "You ready to let me in?"

No answer.

Inwardly he sighed. Of course not, because he couldn't catch a fucking break.

Right, Sam, because Dean's had so many.

He told his brain to shut up and stood, stretching again to work the kinks out of his muscles. He was starving, but didn't know that Dean would stay where he was if he left even long enough to grab breakfast. He couldn't take the chance that he'd run, couldn't take not knowing where he was, not again.

He steadied himself, and walked to his duffle for clean clothes.

"You hungry?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

He wanted to laugh because this was Dean, and the one constant he knew he could count on was his infamous stomach. He actually smiled, and sorted through his clothes for something that might fit Dean. They weren't all that far apart in size, but Sam's jeans would be too long, his shirts a little tight on Dean's broad shoulders.

After a minute, he decided it didn't much matter, and balled a pair of jeans and a plain grey t-shirt in his hands. He returned to the bathroom with them, tossing them onto the floor without crossing the line. "Here, thought you might want something to wear."

Dean looked down at himself, as if he only just noticed he was wearing only dirty, blood stained jeans. He looked at, but didn't move for the clothes.

"I'm going to get some breakfast," Sam said casually. "So you better think about what you want to do, because at some point, I'm gonna need in there."

He turned to walk away, but tossed over his shoulder, "And take a shower... you reek."

Acting so unaffected was taking a toll on him. That, coupled with the lack of sleep, was threatening to break his resolve. Sighing, he judged the distance between the motel's office and the room. After careful deliberation, he decided it wasn't too risky to duck in there and grab some of their complimentary breakfast. He could keep an eye out and if he saw Dean making a break for it, he would be close enough to stop it.

He jogged over and stepped inside, nodding to the person at the desk before checking out the spread. He had no idea what Dean might want, so he hastily picked out a few items, balancing them in his arms.

"Hey," a voice called as he shoved a bottle of orange juice in his jacket pocket.

He looked up to see the lady at the front desk eyeing him.

"We got a few complaints last night about screaming," she said, leaning over the desk to talk to him. "You hear anything weird?"

A plastic wrapped set of cutlery joined the orange juice. He furrowed his brow a bit, taking a moment before replying, "Not really. I mean, I heard some... noise from the people beside me, so I guess that could be it."

He flashed her an embarrassed grin and she laughed. "Well, as long as it didn't bother you."

"Bother? Not really," he said, heading for the door. "Kept me up a while, but what're you gonna do?"

She laughed a goodbye and he jogged back to the room, holding his breath. Dumping the contents of his arms on the dresser he hurried to the bathroom door. He sighed in relief when he saw Dean sitting there hugging his knees to his chest. He hadn't showered, but he was wearing the clean clothes, and there was a very dirty towel laying in one corner.

"I, uh, I got breakfast," he said softly.

Dean watched him closely, and he was pleased to note the wild look from the night before wasn't present today. Still wary, though, still afraid.

"Okay," he whispered. "We'll go slow."

He stepped over the line of salt, watching the reaction in his eyes. They went wide, first, as if he hadn't expected Sam was telling the truth. The fear was still very much present, but he held his ground.

Sam knelt again, and Dean pressed into the tub. Sam suspected he was one step away from crawling back in, so he held his hands up in surrender, and again tugged the neck of his shirt down. "It's just me."

Dean's lower lip trembled, and the look he put Sam on edge. He'd rarely seen Dean without his guard up, and seeing emotions like this cross his face was alien, unsettling. But to see fear in those eyes, and know he was the source... it hurt more than he could dream. God, it hurt.

"I don't know how else to show you, Dean," Sam pleaded. "It's me."

Dean lowered his head again, hiding his face in his arms, and Sam almost missed the muffled voice.

"Dead."

He sounded broken...

Sam walked on his knees, moving just a little bit closer. "You're not dead, Dean."

"Sam..."

"Yeah?" he spoke too fast, sounding too desperate. "What, Dean?"

"No. Sam."

"I am Sam..." It took him a moment to realize what he meant. "No! Dean, I'm not dead! I'm right here."

Dean looked up, eyes accusing. Clearly seeing was not believing.

He reached out, telling Dean, "I'm not going to hurt you."

Dean flinched when Sam grabbed his hand, but didn't fight him, and he considered that major progress. He pulled Dean's hand over, pressing it against his chest. "See?"

He tried to pull back, but Sam kept a firm but gentle grip on his wrist, holding his hand in place. Beneath the palm, his heart was beating maybe a little too fast, but very much alive.

Dean wasn't sold, but when he removed his hand, he didn't pull back immediately, lingering, and watching intently, even turning his head as if he might hear the beat of the heart beneath Sam's shirt.

Absently, his hand rubbed the spot where his had been, and Sam felt a little hope return. Dean lifted his head to look at him again. This time he saw the recognition he'd hoped for, his own hope reflected in those hazel eyes.