Author's Note : I still don't own Supernatural, so please no sue-age!

Hope you guys will forgive the absence, I've had this written for a while but I was stuck on a chapter and didn't know what I might need to change. Never fear, I'm not quite so stuck any more, so this, and future chapters hopefully won't take so long to post. I'd like to finish before Season 4 debuts, after all.

Each and every review is appreciated and used to stoke the creative fires!

--

"How you holdin' up, Sam?"

He had to think about that one for a minute. He'd ducked outside when Bobby called, and already he had to stomp his feet in attempt to ward off the chill of early morning.

"I'm okay," he lied. "Got a job I'm looking into, nothing big, but it's something."

"You know that's not what I mean," Bobby's voice came back, sounding tinny over the phone.

He shrugged, knowing Bobby couldn't see it. "I'm... working through it."

There. Definitely not the truth, but not exactly a lie, either.

A sigh from the other end of the line was followed by Bobby speaking gruffly. "You know you did the right thing, Sam."

He laughed drily, staring across the parking lot. "Yeah. Yeah, I do, Bobby."

He said goodbye and stuffed the phone back in his pocket, eager to get back in the room. Dean hadn't woken him up screaming that morning, but he still wasn't eager to leave him on his own right now. He had a feeling his brother hadn't slept at all, and that was the reason he woke up with the sunshine and not threat of bodily harm.

When he shut the door behind him, Dean didn't look up from where he sat on the bed, staring blankly at the TV. He'd left it on some stupid talk show, finding comfort in the background noise, and figuring the fluff might be mind numbing enough to ease Dean, too.

"Hey," he said, making a point of locking the door behind him. "Anything good on?"

He tried not to sigh when Dean didn't answer. The silence was getting harder to deal with. Or maybe trying to break through it was what really got to him. He wanted to treat Dean as normally as possible, even if it took a great effort.

"You hungry?" Sam asked, sitting on his own bed. He couldn't help notice the subtle tensing of Dean's shoulders. "There's pizza, or we could grab something from the lobby or wherever."

The talk show went on, but the volume wasn't loud enough for Dean not to have heard him. He had a suspicion he wasn't really watching the screen anyway. Looking past it was more like it.

"I said you didn't have to talk, and I meant it," he said slowly, trying not to let his frustration show, "but don't shut me out, okay? Please?"

A hint of desperation must have slipped through, because Dean's eyes flickered his way very briefly. A second later he nodded, and looked away.

Sam tried to be grateful for that, he really did. But all he could think about was how, before, they didn't even need to talk to communicate. Dean could smirk at him and he'd practically hear his brother's voice in his head, cracking a joke about the guy at the bar. When you were hunting, silence was often a necessity, the only advantage you might have when you wanted to stay alive long enough to get back in the fight. They'd been scary good, instinctively knowing where the other would be, and needing no instruction.

Now he had no idea what Dean was thinking; he'd always been tough to read, so adept at hiding his emotions, but that was nothing compared to now. It was so different, so wrong it hurt to think about. His own body was sending out waves of emotion the old Dean would never have missed, and his eyes were pleading. But his brother's face was stone, his eyes adapting a thousand yard stare that chilled Sam to the core.

Dean fidgeted, eyes flicking back to Sam, who quickly realized his staring was making him uncomfortable. He averted his gaze, quickly searching for something to say.

"Um, so... I guess we'll head out soon?" He'd actually planned on staying put until they were able to sort some things out, but now the idea of another hourin that suffocating roomwould be unbearable. "We should probably get you some clothes."

He stood up and retrieved the pizza from the fridge, leaving the box open on the top for Dean to help himself. Cold pizza was one of their staples, and he usually didn't mind it. Today it tasted more wooden than the night before, sticking to the roof of his mouth. He knew it was worry edging off his hunger, so he forced himself to keep chewing, motioning Dean to dig in.

His brother only eyed the leftovers and shook his head.

With some effort he swallowed. "Dean, you have to eat. I know it's not the greatest breakfast, but... you have to be hungry."

Another small shake of his head.

He shrugged, not out of apathy, but out of helplessness. He couldn't make Dean eat, just had to hope he'd be hungry enough eventually. He gave him a once-over, deciding that Dean definitely looked thinner than he had before. More of that annoying worry gnawing at his stomach.

He finished his own breakfast, throwing the remains in the trash. He couldn't imagine eating any more of that tasteless garbage.

--

A little over an hour later, and his day was only getting worse. He should have known Dean in public would been a bad idea.

On the one hand, it seemed to make Dean a little more trusting of him. He was pressed in to his brother, walking so close their hips touched. For now, at least, he saw Sam as safety. It sucked that this was what it took, but he couldn't deny he was happy to see it.

On the other hand, the way Dean was reacting to their venture was on the verge of a full blown panic attack. He kept his hands down by his sides, balled into fists, his entire body stiff, but his eyes were shifting frantically, trying to take in everything. Their pace was steady, but slow, and already his breathing was too fast.

He should have known better, but he didn't have much of a choice; he couldn't leave Dean alone in this state, and they'd already run down Sam's wardrobe. The store itself wasn't that large, but there were enough people around to make even Sam nervous. He had no idea what would happen if Dean got spooked here.

"I'm sorry, dude," he whispered softly, glancing over. "We'll make this short, okay?"

Dean nodded, his face pale.

That was a change, too. Again he was sorry for the circumstances, but not the result.

They got some looks as they walked quietly to the back of the store, and with each one Dean grew more agitated. Sam didn't waste any time, grabbing only the necessities, haphazardly piling them in his arms. His elbow bumped against Dean's as he grabbed a pair of jeans off the shelf, and he was pleased to note that he didn't jump away. If anything, he shifted closer.

"Hi!"

The cheerful voice of the woman who had appeared next to them startled him, but Dean shot backward, bumping into a rack of t-shirts. He'd refused to let Dean carry the knife out of the room, but he saw his hands searching for it. Sam cursed, balancing his pile, and reached out to grab his elbow, making sure he didn't run off.

"Um..." the employee looked uncertain now, and her cheerful tone was replaced by confusion. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"No," Sam said quickly. "We're fine."

She nodded, but her eyes went to Dean, and he knew she wasn't sure. He looked back, taking in the wide hazel eyes and the wheezing gasps. Coupled with the bruises and scrapes, he looked anything but.

"We're fine," he said again, trying for an earnest smile. "My brother got mugged last night, so he's still kinda shaky."

The woman nodded slowly, but seemed to believe him. "Okay, well... if you need anything, my name's Amy."

He nodded, relieved when she walked off in the direction of a man digging through a pile of t-shirts. She shot a worried glance over her shoulder, and he smiled until she looked away.

"Are you okay?" he asked, turning back to Dean.

He nodded, but his eyes were still wide and Sam almost thought he could hear his heart pounding. It took him a minute to realize it was his own, sending adrenaline coursing through his veins. He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself down, and focused on Dean.

"It's okay, Dean," he said, softly. "Try to calm down."

But Dean was looking over his shoulder, at the worker who was now assisting the man with a belt. His eyes were glassy, and the sheen of sweat on his face coupled with the purple smudges under his eyes made him look sickly. He quickly tugged on Dean's elbow, grateful the touch was still allowed. "Let's go."

He guided Dean to the front of the store, scanning for a checkout that wasn't crowded. Luckily it was early enough that the store wasn't crowded, and was able to find one easily. The cashier was just a teenager, trying hard to make polite conversation, but Sam just smiled tightly, keeping a watchful eye on his brother.

As soon as he handed over the money, he grabbed the bags - barely enough to call a wardrobe, but better than nothing - and eagerly headed for the exit. He kept apologizing under his breath, but Dean wasn't hearing it.

A voice called out from behind them, "Sir!"

Sam automatically turned around, and saw the cashier waving him down. "Sir, you forgot your change!"

"Keep it," he muttered, but the kid just kept running at him, arm outstretched. Damn, he was fast.

Dean made a soft sound of alarm, and Sam turned back around in time to see him press into the Impala, clearly shocked that his escape route was blocked. He didn't seem to realize that the driver's side door was open barely an inch to his right, just kept his back against the unyielding metal.

The kid stopped a few feet away, a confused look crossing his features.

Sam waved him away impatiently, but the boy insisted, stealing a nervous glance at the front of the store. Grunting angrily, Sam snatched the cash from his hand, barely noticing the coins that went flying onto the pavement.

"What's wrong with him?" the cashier asked, sounding awed at some stranger's reaction to him. "He slow?"

Sam whirled angrily, towering over the teen. "No."

He backed up a step, eyes wide, but kept looking at Dean. "Sorry! But he's - "

"He's fine," Sam hissed, his voice venomous, quickly adding, "He just got back from Iraq. Ever heard of post traumatic stress?"

He was tired of making up explanations. What did it matter, anyway? What business was it of theirs?

The kid mumbled an apology and headed back to the store, glancing over his shoulder once or twice as he did.

Angrily, Sam spun around, slamming his palm against the Impala. The pain that accompanied the smack of skin on metal was satisfying, but short lived. If he'd seen Sam treat his car like that, Dean would have killed him before. And when his only reaction was to cower, shift further away from Sam, it only served to point out the stark difference again.

That was all it took, he realized. All it took for all the progress to shift into a backslide, was one wrong move.

He hit the car again, but softly, pressing his palm against the black paint, feeling the warmth of the sun that lingered. He dropped his head and fought to breathe evenly. His emotions were threatening not only to catch up with him, but to overwhelm him. Right now he couldn't decide whether he felt more like crying, punching that stupid cashier, or just getting in the car and making a run for it.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be...

God, Dean. I'm so fucking sorry.

He wanted his brother back, the way he had been. He wanted Dean to tell him it was going to be okay, to make some joke and say he was fine. He wanted Dean to swoop in and save the day so he could just curl up in a ball and ignore the fact that his entire world was upside down, FUBAR with no hope of going back the way they were.

He sucked in a deep breath, bowing his head. No, things could never be the same, but there was still a chance he could salvage some of it. The problem was, he didn't know how to start, was questioning if he had the strength to even try.

A tug on his jacket sleeve brought his attention back to Dean. He was looking at Sam with the same fear, but his eyes went back to the front of the store, then back, his expression urgent. His fingers still gripped Sam's sleeve.

Understanding, and with it, a great sense of relief, dawned on him. Dean wanted to leave. With him.

He gave a vague nod, opened the door, and watched Dean scramble across the seat. He still put as much space as possible between them, but something was different. He didn't question it, just started the car, and drove.

--

For the first time, he thought it might be better if he hadn't come back. Twisted, yeah, but knowing what he was in for was easier than this constant fear, paranoia that was far too justified. It crept along his spine, took up shelter in the back of his head, icy fingers that raised the hair on the back of his neck.

This wasn't what he remembered.

Even the air was different, parting around him in a way he didn't quite understand. He felt like he was trying to run through an ocean, legs taking too much effort to move on an uneven ground. His balance was precarious at best and often, he plunged suddenly under the surface, found himself looking up and wondering what happened.

Times like that the disorientation was nauseating, confusing, but bearable. He didn't always know where he was, but it usually came back to him eventually.

But this...

This was worse.

This was realization.

There would be no escape.

They were out there, and they would know that he was, too. They would be looking. More than that, they would find him. They would drag him, kicking and screaming, back into the pit, and that would be that.

Even if he managed to stay out of their reach, hidden, what did it matter? He sold his soul - his soul. Maybe he didn't believe in God, or Heaven, but it wasn't so bad to think you died, and just stopped living. Scary, maybe, to think of such an abrupt ending. But there was peace in non existence. Rest. To know there was no salvation, not even in death...

To know, really know that no matter whether he was dragged away by demons, or died of old age, he was still going back...

Hope, relief, any positive emotion he'd found since his return, was ripped out of his chest. The pain he felt at the realization was almost as if his heart had been ripped from his chest - and he knew what that felt like. Knew what it was to have your chest sliced open, have your sternum cracked, heart plucked easily from your chest, and held in the hands of a demon. Watched it beat, felt his body give out, but there was no end, because he wasn't really alive. No matter what they did to him, he would not, could not die.

He was going to be sick.

He pulled the door open, barely noticing the car was still moving. Only felt the slide as Sam stomped on the brakes and he was thrown against the door, toppling out onto the side of the road, the Impala kicking up dust in his face.

He retched, but there was nothing to throw up. Heard Sam behind him, first angry, then concerned.

Then afraid.

Dry heaves continued even as Sam's hands clutched at his back, begging him to answer. He heard tears in his brother's voice, and it was easier to let himself believe again that this wasn't Sam.

He tried, wanted to, but his mind wouldn't listen.

It's Sam. You're back, and it's Sam, and things just got a whole helluva lot more complicated.

He sobbed, barely able to see through the tears, and retched again, feeling his nails tear as he dug into the asphalt.

Sam's arm was around his shoulder now, talking, always talking. He wanted to believe that Sam was alive, and that was all that mattered. That he could be okay, as long as Sam was safe. He'd always believed that before.

So why not now?

Because this was torture, his mind reasoned.

But Dad... Dad got out...

But, but... he laughed inwardly. Dad was different. He made a deal, a trade, but he didn't sell his goddamn soul. He wasn't supposed to end up there. But you. You were supposed to be dead long before, and you belonged...

His hand went to his chest, pressing hard as his fractured mind at war with itself.

Reason didn't matter.

It would never be over, and he knew that. He felt that.

Because what really happened to a demon when they died? Were they just gone? As in disappeared forever? Or did they go back to hell and bide their time until the next jailbreak? They could wait forever, because they had that much time.

Forever was a long time, till the end of time, but there would never be an end to this. He would live as long as he could, live with the memories, jumping at shadows, always afraid. There would be no peace in death, because death meant forever. Not the way people thought of forever, but in the literal sense of the word.

He wailed, barely aware he was making a sound.

His mind couldn't take that. Had caved in already. And it still wasn't over. It and he felt sick. Sick what they'd done to him, at what he'd done, sick because when he died, or they took him back, he wouldn't fear becoming a demon. He would embrace it.

He didn't want to live. He didn't want to die. He just wanted to stop.

He begged Sam to make it stop, unable to hear his own voice over the blood pounding in his ears.

He felt Sam's arms encircle him, almost jumped out of his skin, and resisted - it was too much, too close. This was the man he'd sold his soul, given up his humanity, endured Hell for. And he knew, without a doubt, that he would do it again.

There, on the side of the road, he felt himself shatter.