Author's Note : Sorry this chapter took so long to post but I promise I'll try not to let it happen again. Thanks to everyone who is taking the time to review... it really means a lot to me to know that you're enjoying the story! I guess it's going to turn into a long one, but hey, we have all summer, and this is a good way to kill time!

So, with another apology, here's the next installment! I like to think it's worth the wait, let me know what you think!

--

Sam chewed thoughtfully, working diligently at his pizza without really tasting it. Dean had fallen asleep in an incredibly awkward situation, and he was debating whether or not he should try moving him. Dean had always been like their dad that way - able to sleep whenever and where ever he could : scrunched up in the front seat of the Impala, even standing against a wall one time. But man, he'd feel it in the morning.

He finished his slice and brushed crumbs off his jeans, deciding against moving Dean. He didn't want another incident like last night, and who knew when the last time he'd gotten any sleep was. Better just to leave him, even if it meant he'd have one hell of a kink in his neck come morning.

He shoved the remaining pizza in the mini fridge. He wasn't all that hungry anymore, and Dean would need something in the morning. How long since he last ate?

Sam glanced at his watch, checked it by the motel clock. It was way too early for bed, but since when did he keep a normal schedule? He was beat, and the bed was inviting.

He checked the door and window, then laid a line of salt, more for Dean's benefit than actual worry. They could figure things out later, when they both had more than a few hours rest between them.

--

"Dean..."

The voice was persistent, and he'd been taught well. He opened his eyes.

John Winchester stared back at him in disappointment and disgust. "Did you do this, son?"

He looked down, saw the knife in his hands, the body at his feet. He wanted to deny it. Say 'of course it wasn't, how could you even ask that?' But he couldn't force the words out, because the blood on the knife was still warm. He knew, because it wasn't only on the knife - it was on his hand, wet, hot, slick.

His stomach lurched, and he barely turned his back on the sight before throwing up.

"Dean..." John's voice held warning, threat of punishment.

He sobbed, shook his head in disbelief as he spit the foul taste from his mouth

"You were supposed to protect him," John grabbed his arm, voice quiet but laced with acid. "Not kill him."

Dean felt the iron grip around his elbow yank him to his feet, push him stumbling a few feet, then force him back to his knees.

"Look what you've done," John hissed. There was sorrow in his voice, but it was hidden beneath the anger.

There in the grass, sprawled out on his back, was Sam. The knife that killed him was still clenched in Dean's hand. Try as he might, he couldn't drop it.

"You killed him, Dean," John said, taking a step away from him. "You killed your brother."

"N-no," Dean said, shaking his head again. "Sammy?"

Sam's eyes were open, seeing nothing, yet staring at him, wide and accusing.

"God, you really are worthless, aren't you?" John seethed in disgust, circling his son. "But that wasn't enough, was it? You're a murderer, Dean."

"You're not even human..." and just like that, the Colt was in his hands.

"No, Dad!" Dean cried. "I'm not a demon, I didn't mean to hurt him! Dad, please!"

He heard the shot. Less than a second later, the bullet entered his brain.

--

Sam woke up to the sound of Dean's scream. Far more effective than an alarm, it had him shooting out of bed, nearly fallings as his legs tangled in the covers. It was dark in the room, the only light coming from the numbers on the clock radio.

8:15.

He fumbled for the lamp on the bed side table, managed to click it on. The light blinded him for a moment, and he shielded his eyes, catching a glimpse of Dean, kneeling on top of the rumpled covers. His hair was mussed, face tracked with tears, and the wild look in his eyes was back.

"Dean, calm down!" he shouted.

Dean whirled on him, arms outstretched to keep him away, and Sam cursed, seeing all the progress they'd made vanish at the sight of him.

"No, no," he said, holding out his own hands in a show of peace. "It's me, Dean, remember? It's Sam."

Dean searched him wildly, eyes wide, and he held his breath. There was a moment where he was afraid he was going to have to go through the whole thing again, but then relief crossed his brother's face. He launched off the bed, his hand going for Sam's neck.

Sam had to force himself not to block the blow, but Dean had no intention of hurting him. Instead, one hand closed around the amulet he'd forgotten to return. His eyes were still wide, glassy as he searched Sam's face, then looked down between them, the fingers of his free hand touching Sam's chest briefly.

Then he stepped backward, breathing ragged. He looked so lost it made Sam's heart ache.

"Dean?" he asked softly.

Like a shot, he was off again, this time crossing the room to dig through Sam's duffle.

Sam stepped cautiously behind him. "What are you looking for, Dean?"

He didn't answer, his motions hurried, audibly gasping now. Sam had seen his fair share of panic attacks, but he even if he hadn't, he knew his brother was freaking out. Capital F, capital O.

"Dean?" he tried again, moving in front of him and kneeling down to face him across the duffle. "Tell me what you're looking for and I'll find it for you."

Dean looked at him, eyes tortured, but didn't respond. Sam felt bad, as if Dean was asking him in plain terms, and he just wasn't getting it.

He finally got it when Dean came up with Ruby's knife. He wondered again what the story behind that was, but shoved that from his mind. There would be time for that later. Dean seemed to calm slightly as he held the knife, so he stuffed the items he'd rifled through back in the bag.

He turned up just in time to see Dean bring the knife down in a savage slash. Blood immediately began to spill from his wrist.

"Shit!" He jumped to his feet and grabbed the knife from Dean, careful not to cut himself in the process, and threw it to the floor. He pulled Dean with him to the bathroom, grabbing a clean towel and pressing it against the wound. Dean, on the other hand, was staring back to where the knife had fallen to the floor.

"What the fuck, Dean?" Sam cried angrily, putting pressure on the gash.

His brother flinched away, and he immediately regretted the harsh tone. But seriously, what did he expect after that display, a congratulation?

"Shit," he muttered again, lifting the towel to look at the wound. The blood was already slowing, and he could see now that it wasn't too deep.

Dean was staring at his arm now, looking almost shocked. As if he'd looked down and suddenly discovered a tentacle had grown while he slept.

"Damn it Dean," Sam said softly, sadly. "What were you trying to do, man?"

He started to pull away, and Sam followed his gaze to the knife on the floor.

"No!" he said sharply. Maybe too sharply, because Dean was flinching away again, shoulders hunched. He forced himself to breathe. "You lost knife privileges, dude."

He lifted the towel again. Satisfied with what he saw, he pressed back down, then grabbed Dean's hand, lifting it to replace his own. "Hold that."

He trotted back into the room, picking up the knife on his way. He dropped it back in his bag and retrieved the first aid kit. Was he going to have to hide all the knives? Shit, he didn't even want to think about that.

He cleaned the wound with hydrogen peroxide - not knowing where Ruby's knife had been was seriously giving him the creeps - then wrapped the gash in clean gauze, pulling his sleeve down over it.

He pushed him down onto the edge of the tub. "Sit."

He cleaned up the mess, wiping spots of blood from the floor and washing out the towel as best he could before rinsing out the sink. When he was finished, he turned to his brother. They were getting into a bad habit of bathroom confrontations.

"Dean, I need you to tell me why you did that," he said seriously, closing the lid of the toilet so he could sit at Dean's level.

His brother toyed with his sleeve, eyes downcast.

Sam sighed, any rest he'd gotten was quickly being replaced with more tension. "Okay, dude. I need you to talk to me. Why were you trying to kill yourself?"

Ugh, nice form, Sam.

There was a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

"You don't know?" Sam asked.

Dean hung his head, but shook it again, more adamantly.

"You... weren't trying to?" he tried.

A single nod.

"Coulda fooled me," he muttered.

The chirp of his phone ended the conversation before it began. He very rarely got social calls, but it was hard to walk away from this, even for 'business'. He shot a look at Dean, a cross between this isn't over and sorry, duty calls. "Wait here, okay?"

--

He should have done what he was told, but it didn't stop him from moving. Too afraid to try his luck much further, he straddled the threshold, peeking out from behind the doorjamb. Sam glanced back, and he fought the urge to jump back into the bathroom, slam the door, and lock it behind him. Speaking in quiet tones, Sam held up one finger before slipping quietly out the front door.

Torn, Dean hesitated briefly before padding across the floor and digging through Sam's bag. He retrieved the knife and hurried back to the bathroom, breathing a sigh of relief.

He stroked the flat blade, keeping his fingers safely away from the sharp edge. though his arm throbbed, he didn't regret making the cut. This knife could kill a demon, so even a good nick like that would have had some kind of effect, and he was still here, right?

Questionable.

His hand went to the tattoo. Beneath the layers of clothing, he couldn't feel the scar tissue, but it was there all the same. Didn't matter anyway, because his fingertips had long memorized the touch. Without fail, every time he was alone, every time he was really himself, actually in his body, he would find himself absently rubbing his chest. Now he dug the heel of his hand in, trying to ease the ache that never left. Even this phantom touch brought back the sick sensation of something sharp tearing in, gouging away his humanity.

He might not know Hell from a hand basket, but he knew not everyone went in with their body intact. His father had been living proof of that. So to speak. He didn't know for sure why they'd made an exception in his case, but he had a feeling. The first thing they'd done was strip away his safety. The second thing was to get inside of him.

Being possessed by a demon wasn't so much painful, but it was traumatizing. It was a sense of all encompassing wrongness. Your body invaded, and just like that, you're paralyzed. Suddenly you're shoved to the back of your mind like an interloper. The presence... something else, something you know should not be there, but it is, pushing against your consciousness.

It was an absolute lack of control, and they wanted you to know it.

It was a tool, and an effective one, but they didn't use it often; just enough to remind you that they could.

He shuddered, flattened his palm against his chest, feeling his heart beating far too fast. He could still hear their laughter echoing unspoken in his ears. He could feel their presence lingering, creeping fingers that made his skin crawl.

Sam had seen the scars, he knew, and that only made the crawling worse. All the questions were making his stomach knot, and it was only a matter of time before he asked about them, too.

Why? He wanted to know why?

How did you tell your brother you were afraid you weren't real?

Right now his grip on reality was razor thin, and he was dancing on the edge. He was able to recognize that, but half the time he didn't know where he was. Even now he didn't know if he could believe it.

What if if none of it's real?

His mind whirled, and he let out a pained whimper, pressing his hand hard against his chest. He willed it all to stop, but his body betrayed him, and went on breathing like it never stopped.

The front door slammed, and he jumped, fist closing around the knife.

"Dean? Can you come here?"

His heart sped up, if it had ever slowed down, and he tightened his grip around the knife. He sounded frustrated. When Sam saw the knife, he'd be angry. More than anything he wanted to hide the knife and avoid confrontation, but his mind told him not to take that chance. Not when he had a real weapon at his disposal.

He breathed deeply and stepped from the bathroom.

His eyes narrowed, and Dean knew he'd spotted the knife.

"Dean..." he stopped, sighed, and finally sat on the bed, looking defeated. "That was Bobby."

Bobby...

"I called him, after I found you, I mean. I didn't know what to do. He told me to kill you, and I knew he was right," Sam spoke slowly, wringing his hands in his lap. "I thought there was no way it could be you. You had to be something else."

He swallowed.

Sam looked up, gaze intense. "I'm not going to lose you again, so if you're planning on doing something with that knife, it better be wood carving."

Startled, Dean realized his face wanted to smile. Muscle memory, nothing more, because he felt no humor, just mild surprise, and no idea how to deal with it.

"I haven't told him you're back," Sam said, shrugging. "He won't believe it yet, and I can't convince him when you're... like this."

He focused on his feet, feeling ashamed.

"No, Dean, I don't mean it like that," he said quickly. Then his voice took on a pained tone. "It's just... Bobby might not be so easy to convince. He knows how much I wanted it to be true, he'd think I was letting myself believe something that wasn't true. And he'd see you, and he wouldn't see Dean."

Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "This is really hard, Dean. God. You wake up and you don't know it's me. I don't know what to do. So if you don't want to talk right now, that's okay, all right? It would be nice if you did, but you don't have to. But we need to do something about the rest."

He nodded once.

"I don't know..." he trailed off, hesitating. "I guess it's pretty hard to believe it's really me. I didn't believe you were you, either. After what I did, I understand why you're afraid of me."

Dean frowned, but before he could think any further, Sam was speaking again, and his mind backpedaled, trying to keep up.

"I didn't know how to make you talk," he sighed. "I didn't have time to wait, and I just knew I couldn't hurt you, even if it turned out you were, uh, someone else. I read about the sodium thiopentol thing, and... I just didn't have any other option."

From the very deep in the recesses of his mind, a memory came to him. He'd seen it in some movie of the week spy flick. In the movie, they called it a truth serum. He'd asked his Dad about it, and he'd laughed, told him to get his information from reputable sources. His memory wasn't that great, but he thought it was supposed to block higher brain function or something. He knew that it didn't work like it did in the movie. And that it was used in lethal injection. Sam had used that on him?

Thinking about it made his head hurt, so he stopped.

"...don't have to forgive me," Sam was saying. "but it's not going to happen again. I'm not going to hurt you. You know that, right?

He wanted to. He really, really wanted to. He wanted Sam to know he was trying, but he didn't know.

Sam sighed wearily. "God, I'm tired. Are you gonna be okay while I...?"

He heard the unspoken questions. Are you going to run off? Are you going to freak out and hurt yourself? Are you going to kill me in my sleep?

He climbed on to his bed, and gave the only show of comfort he could - he slipped the knife beneath his pillow.

He watched as Sam nodded once and then disappeared into the bathroom. He heard the water turn on and spent the next fifteen minutes fighting the pull of sleep.

Sam returned, hair damp, and in his sleeping attire, and he watched as he checked the lines of salt at the window and door. He was grateful for the added protection, but it wasn't enough to put him at ease. Doubted anything would ever again.

Sam flopped down on the bed, reaching for the light before pausing. "Do you want me to leave this on?"

He wanted to shake his head. Wanted not to need the light, because light wasn't salvation. It couldn't protect you, it just let you see the attack before it came. But after so long in the dark, he gave a feeble nod, relieved when Sam's hand withdrew.

"Goodnight, Dean."

Sam slept.

Dean kept watch.