"Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, 'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.' "

- Neruda, Tonight I can write...

"I can't leave him like this!" Sam yells at the nurse that dares stand in the doorway separating him from Dean. She barely comes up to his chest, but she holds her ground without batting an eye.

The front of Sam's shirt is still splattered with blood, he looks like he has just run twenty miles and his nose is throbbing. None of that registers on his radar, though, because Dean is much, much worse off and he needs to get back to him. They are in the Crisis Stabilization Service unit of the closest ER, have been here for three hours already, and now that the staff has decided that Dean needed inpatient care, they are trying to throw Sam out. How is that going to help anyone? Why can't he stay where he's fucking needed?

He almost regrets calling that EMT to the park, even though the rational part of his mind tells him it was the right thing to do. He had to do it. He couldn't get Dean back on his feet, couldn't get him to move at all. It was like shaking a ragdoll, or worse, a carcass. Sam wasn't in any shape to carry him back to the Impala and deal with this crisis on his own. He had to call for help. Then the ambulance took them to the hospital, and Dean had been evaluated by, like, a dozen people, though most of them only cast one look at him and scribbled "INPATIENT" on their assessment sheets with big, block letters. Sam felt like murdering them with their own equipment at the time, but they were right - Dean doesn't have the ability to function normally at the moment. He doesn't do anything else but zoning out and crying, and it's breaking Sam's heart. He doesn't even nod or shake his head to answer some questions - not because he doesn't understand them, but because he doesn't care at all. Not one bit.

They spent the last thirty minutes apart. A nurse helped Dean change into some paper scrubs (or dressed him, basically). Sam wasn't allowed to help - he was led into a separate room where a Dr. Freud imitator went through the same questions with him that they tried to get Dean to answer an hour earlier. Past psychiatric disorders, stressors, history of abuse, self-injurious behaviour - the doctor drew a little tick beside all of them as Sam stammered through his answers with his busted nose. The guy kept nodding as if this was something he could have predicted after the first sentence was out of Sam's mouth. It was incredibly galling, and it was nothing, but sheer luck that Sam didn't deck him when he made a comment about how Dean probably didn't have a significant other because they didn't come with him to the hospital. Oh, how immensely satisfying it would have felt to throw it into his face, here I am, you fucker! But, of course, Sam couldn't have a homicidal rage fit when his bro-… when his boyfriend was already dealing with a complete nervous breakdown.

The brave nurse puts a hand on his shoulder. "Sir, I need you to calm down. Your brother is in good hands now. We gave him a tranquilizer, he's going to fall asleep soon."

"Just until he does." Sam begs, lowering his voice and dropping his shoulders. Her features soften into a sympathetic frown. "Please."

"Alright, Mr. Winchester." She sighs and gives in with obvious reluctance. "But then I have to ask you to leave. Visiting hours are over."

Thank God for the magical effect of his slanted eyes. "Okay. Okay." Sam moves to brush past her with a look as grateful as it gets. "Thank you."

It's pleasantly dark inside the room, the blinds drawn to keep out the fading lights of this warm summer evening. They would be out there eating mustard-soaked hot dogs, Sam figures, if it wasn't for his stupid, stupid need to dig down to the bottom of every issue he comes across. God, how reluctant Dean had been to come back here, how anxious he was, but Sam had to push and bitch and plead until he gave in. This is his fault. All his goddamn fault.

Dean is curled up on his side, facing the wall instead of the other guy dozing one bed over. Sam pulls the checkered, puce-coloured curtain around until they have a modicum of privacy and wedges himself into the uncomfortable chair Dean's body curves towards on instinct. Looks like he knew Sam would find a way to get in, he had faith in that even in this state - the thought chokes Sam up.

"Hey, Dean." He murmurs, wanting to call him sweet names, say words that Dean would find mushy just to hear his teasing instead of the air whistling through Dean's clogged up nose.

"I can't even imagine how it feels right now." Sam starts, rubbing the knob of Dean's shoulder. While waiting for the ambulance to pick them up, he did manage to get it out of Dean that a bunch of previously inaccessible memories are coming back to him in fits and bouts, that his psychogenic amnesia is crumbling in ripples of excruciating pain. That he remembers he was Sam Wesson's friend before the fire. It was the last thing they talked about - after that, Dean clammed up and let go of his surroundings altogether.

"But you are gonna be okay. Trust me on this, alright? I'll make it okay." Dean has his eyes closed, and his cheeks are blotchy and swollen from crying, but his skin isn't wet anymore. Only the deep frown remains on his face that Sam suspects is simply a reaction to the headache now, not something caused by the memories themselves. He brushes a thumb over it, wishing to take away the pain. "I'll make it all better."

Dean doesn't answer, but he hiccups and pulls Sam's hand to his chin. It's probably the best he can do in terms of reassurance. He seems sluggish and weighed down, steadily falling asleep. The drugs must be working - the realisation sends a rush of relief through Sam's body. Everything is going to be okay now.

He holds onto his hurt with a will of iron and bends over, kisses Dean's forehead until the grip on his hand goes slack. It's going to be okay, he tells himself.

The one time Sam had to stay in a hospital overnight he couldn't distinguish between delirium and reality, he couldn't comprehend what was happening to him. Sitting in the dust of the psychiatric unit's stairwell, he feels the exact same nauseating confusion. His thoughts are swirling around like whirlwinds, knocking over trash bins of emotions he never wanted to see scattered around in his mind again. He's lost and terrified, and needs Dean so much it's a physical ache in his stomach. He has to stay on his own feet though, because it has to be him who stands as a pillar for once. He has to hold it together.

Never in his life did he imagine that Dean could cry the way he did today. He never would have thought he would see such inconsolable hurt on that life-hardened face, then feel how that body sags in his embrace when its owner gives up on it for good. As if on a leash attached to Dean's heart, he is yanked right along on this path into darkness. He realises, once again, how fused together they are, how much they need each other to navigate through life's stormy waters. Taken off guard by this reveal, they are just… they are an unstable system teetering on the edge of a disastrous chain reaction.

Sam rubs his dry, red-rimmed eyes and pulls out his phone. His fingers fly over the screen with unconscious precision, a habitual speed-dial, and he only realises his mistake when the other phone in his pocket belts out an all too familiar heavy metal riff he's so goddamn angry to hear.

"Fuck." He curses, tearing up.

The nurses gave him Dean's stuff for safekeeping. His phone, his keys and wallet, his clothes, the cheap little amulet he values so much. He couldn't even keep his boots - shoelaces aren't allowed at the inpatient ward. Sam refuses to think about why that is. He can bring Dean pants without drawstrings tomorrow. And a book, perhaps. Five days of lock-up is a lot of potential for boredom.

"He will whine for skin mags, am I right?" Sam smiles listlessly at a dust bunny, then hugs his knees and takes a deep breath. He has to go back for the car before some teenage hooligan hotwires it. Losing Dean's Impala would be the last straw for today.

He had a niggling thought that Addie's story had more than just a kernel of truth to it. Sam Wesson, Sam Wesson - it doesn't sound right. He doesn't want it to sound right. But there's this tingle of recognition that says he heard this name before, and he skimmed over those police records. He doesn't yet know the details, but it's true. Even Dean said so. He isn't who he thinks he is. He is not… he doesn't exist. His whole life is built on a lie. His vague memories, shadows and impressions of a house, a brown-haired woman - they never really fit anywhere, but he had no way to compare them to anything. Until today, that is. And now he can say with certainty that he remembers a different place, not the one the Winchester family lived in. A different life, according to those decade-old files. A whole other life he didn't live because he took another boy's place. What a low blow. Feels like a vivisection.

At least, his nose isn't broken. The tiny nurse got a doctor for him who was decent enough to check it and prescribe some painkillers. If only he could gather the strength to get things done instead of cleaning probably prehistoric dirt off these tiles with his nicest jeans. If only his mind would just unfreeze. He has to go back to the station, apologise for the mess, blame it on PTSD or something. Then read those records more carefully than he did this time. Drive around a bit, see if he can recall something else that could be of help. Buy Dean some toffee candies because he always stuffs his face full of them to annoy Sam and Sam wants to be annoyed rather than bearing this worry for a day longer than he needs to. He wants Dean to grin up at him tomorrow, say something sloppy-sultry and whack him on the back, pretend nothing happened. He wants him happy.

Sam's fingers slip over his phone screen again. He can't do this alone. He punches in his other speed dial contact.

Jody picks up on the third ring. "Sam! I'm so happy you called, darling." She says, sounding smiley, and of all things, that's what sets off the waterworks.

"Mom?" Sam cries. "I have to tell you something." And he finally crumples, sends dust bunnies dancing with the exhales of his heaving chest until the pressure begins to trickle out with his tears.

It's one of Sam's nicest recurring dreams that he gets a dog. A clumsy labrador that sometimes knocks him over in an attempt to lick every last inch of his face. The first time he meets the puppy in his sleep there's always a wrought-iron gate between them that he has to stick his hand through. Sometimes the dream evolves into a long sequence of running through streets looking for that particular gate and the overeager dog behind it. The dream always ends the same way, someone calls his name and Sam sits up in bed, eyes snapping awake. Amused by it all, he used to rib Dean about drooling on his shoulder and being an aggressive closet-cuddler, which was promptly denied each and every time. He thought it was only that, silly nonsense to relax his mind.

This time, Sam knows he's not dreaming, but he's right here by the wrought-iron gate and he can hardly take a breath. On the opposite side of the road is the address from the police records, an unfamiliar house with unfamiliar people living in it. But the curve of the sidewalk and most of the buildings are straight out of the snapshots he could never really make sense of, the flashes from Sam Wesson's world. Christ. So sometimes he comes back here when he's asleep.

It's a picture-perfect neighbourhood, quiet and family friendly. It's hard to imagine how life would have been if he grew up here. Pretty lonely, Sam figures. He used to be a shy kid, afraid of his peers. And he didn't inherit anything, his parents must have been broke. It's not hard to conclude he would have never fit into the popular groups even if he wasn't an orphan. Perhaps he would have been picked on by the rich kids. Or maybe… maybe, he would have become a big brother himself, someone's protector. He would have never been a part of Dean's life after the fire.

Sam glances back at the Impala's sleek frame, waiting for him by the curb, and a fraction of an unbidden memory creeps up on him to complete the dream he always wakes up from.

"I don't want you to leave." Sam says, petting the neighbour's puppy. Mom is calling for him, but he doesn't want to go home, he wants to play with Dean.

"I know, Sammy." Dean ruffles his hair. He is smiling because Sam gave him the nicest of his black cars and he really likes it. "You know what? Tomorrow afternoon, I'll come here straight from school and we can play as long as you want."

"Holy shit." Sam gapes, mind whirring as the pieces slot together. He could never place this snapshot before. It was such a vague recollection, he couldn't find meaningful details in it, but it makes so much more sense now. The files said Sam Wesson survived the explosion because he wasn't inside with his parents. He wandered out of the house to meet a friend. Is this how it happened? Is this why he sneaked out, to wait for Dean to show up? Does Dean remember? Was he there with Sam during the explosion?

Sam wishes he could ask him. He wishes they could talk. It's pathetic, really, how he longs for Dean to tell him it's gonna be alright. It has been two days and Dean has yet to come out of his room when it's time for visiting hours, even though he knows Sam is not allowed to go in there, damn the ridiculous hospital protocol. He doesn't want to face anyone. Not wanting to see Sam is understandable - this is his fault, after all - but why doesn't he speak to Jody? She drove over straight away after Sam called her and spent every waking minute trying to find ways to help them, why can't Dean just come out and hug her? Why can't he give them a life sign or something? They are still his goddamn family. Especially Jody and Bobby. Sam doesn't know what he is anymore. He just… he hopes Dean still loves him. That's all.

He sits back into the car and presses his face into the upholstery, eyes closed. There's nothing else for him to remember about this place. What the hell did he think this trip would give him? Answers? It's not like he has an amnesia to unlock. He remembers as much as he ever will. All he gained from this is something to connect his stray snapshots to. Nothing groundbreaking that would help him understand.

His fingers dig into the leather in frustration. The faintest traces of Dean's scent surround him and bring wetness to his eyes that he wipes away angrily. What is he going to do now? Should he take this to court, fight for an identity that doesn't feel his anyway? Should he press charges against a frail old woman who only tried to do the best for him? What an insane predicament.

Should he risk his relationship with Dean? If he takes legal steps to clear things up, they will have to stop dating. Because, according to the law, incest applies to adopted siblings too, no matter the lack of biological connection. Who knows, though, Dean might not want him anyway. Sam can't fathom what's going on in his mind. Not much good, he assumes.

For better or worse, he's taking Dean back to Sioux Falls three days from now. They already made some adjustments - Bobby rearranged Dean's old bedroom, put Sam's bed in there too to make sure Dean won't stay alone for longer periods. They can't let him hurt himself. Sam prays that he won't even try.

"Dude. Did you lose your razor?" Are the first words Dean says to him when the nurses let Sam into the psychiatric ward on the fifth afternoon. He is sitting at a table that's covered by a weird assortment of things - a handful of cigarettes, a picture of someone's cat, candy bars, books and a battered deck of cards. His content smile reeks of faking to Sam's experienced eyes.

Sam purses his lips. Yes, he forgot to shave. Not like he turned into Tom Selleck after five days, but it shows, and he knows it does, just… he hardly had a wink of sleep and he feels like utter crap. Shaving was the last thing on his mind.

"Did you start gambling in here?" He asks, ignoring Dean's question.

Dean rocks back with his chair, raising an eyebrow. "I'm a fine businessman, Sam. Check out my winnings." Sam takes another glance at the heap of objects. He spots a set of false teeth in there too. "Besides, I was bored out of my mind."

"You know you can't take all these -"

"I know." Dean grumbles, his faux-cheer fading fast. "The nurses can sort them out, I don't care."

Sam sits down next to him and puts a hand on his elbow, circling with his thumb. The hurt in Dean's green eyes opens up like a pit of darkness, the act he tried to put on all but gone. Just like Sam expected. It's okay. He had five days to prepare himself for everything Dean can possibly throw his way. He can handle it. "How are you feeling?"

Dean opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His breathing stops for a second. "Don't know." He mumbles at last. "They pump me full of drugs here. I'm just numb."

Someone begins wailing in a room down the hall. A bulky male nurse stands up and disappears in that direction. Dean shudders. "These crazies creep me out. Can you take me home, Sammy?"

Sam lets his hand slip lower, folds it into Dean's and squeezes. It's about time to leave this place. "Yeah. I'm taking you home, Dean."

Dean swallows. The dim light of his gaze shifts away into the distance, away from Sam's eyes. His hand doesn't squeeze back. "Good." He says to the table top, voice devoid of any feeling. Sam has to believe he means it anyway.

By the time they get down to the car, Dean looks like his soul has been smashed into pieces over the course of the last few days. He can't maintain any sort of pretension anymore - it's very telling that he lasted for only about five minutes while any other time he is the king of keeping up appearances. Regardless of the dust, he strokes a hand along Baby's black metal with a sort of reverent longing that seems alien on his handsome face.

"I can't drive." He chokes out, eyes watering.

Sam knows. He got detailed information of Dean's medication and the precautions he should take before getting him home. Still, he is sure it's better that he came with the Impala instead of Jody's car. Even if Dean has to ride shotgun, it must be a comfort. "It's alright, I will handle it."

Dean nods grimly and fiddles with the amulet Sam has given back to him when they exited the ward. His composure seems like a brittle coat of armour, rusty and on the verge of falling apart. Sam reaches out to - to pull him close or to soothe, he doesn't know - but Dean steels himself and opens the door faster than Sam could touch him. Misery surges up in Sam's mind. Dean not only refuses to have a meaningful talk, he shies away from physical contact too. It's not personal, but it still shoots Sam's soul with arrows every single time.

Schooling his expression into something carefully neutral, Sam circles the car and gets behind the wheel. No use moping over Dean's coping methods. As long as they work and don't hurt him, Sam has to accept them.

They spend the first hour of their drive to Sioux Falls in silence. Dean doesn't eat any of the sweets Sam filled the Impala with, he doesn't ask questions and only answers Sam's when he has no chance to get away with a simple jerk of his head. After a while, Sam stops trying altogether and lets the engine's rumble lull them into an illusion of comfort. He hopes Jody won't mind if Dean keeps brushing her off too when they get home. And that she isn't mad at Sam. She wanted to be here with the two of them, but Sam desperately needed to be alone with Dean and convinced her to go home a day earlier. He doesn't want to keep himself in check and try acting like a brother if something goes awry. If Dean needs him, he has to be there in every capacity he can provide, and Jody's presence, as much as Sam loves her as his Mom, would have prevented that.

He wonders if he did the right thing with that. He has no way of knowing what Dean thinks of him right now. If he… if he resents Sam, blames him for his breakdown or just plain hates his guts, Sam's decision might have made matters worse. He feels like he should apologise, grovel for something he inadvertently caused, but he has no idea where to start and Dean wouldn't appreciate it anyway. The tension of all their unsaid thoughts feels like living hell.

They are well into the second hour when Dean straightens up with an abrupt jolt and barks an order. "Pull over."

Sam barely avoids swerving into the other (thankfully empty) lane in fright. "We're on a bridge, Dean, I can't."

"Pull the fuck over!"

"Jesus! Wait a goddamn minute."

When they finally cross the small river that pulled this sudden reaction out of Dean, Sam brings the car to a stop next to a clump of trees and turns to hear whatever is about to come out of his br… boyfriend. This isn't about taking a leak, he has no doubt about that.

Sure enough, after another minute of hesitation, Dean begins talking to his own lap. "I don't yet remember everything." He clears his throat. "But I know the big things now. And I know what happened when... when Adam died."

His breaths become short and labored, panicked. Sam itches to touch, but he can't risk stopping whatever confession is on Dean's tongue. He needs to hear it.

"My father really gave it to me that day, you know? Beat me half-dead. I wished he had gone through with it." Dean soldiers on. "I ran away to the park as soon as I could, tried to find you. You never… you never cared about these." He gestures at his back. "But you disappeared, your home was blown up and I was missing you so bad…" Sighing, he rubs a hand over his face. "I skipped school and just wandered around all day."

"Looking for me."

Dean nods, twisting his own fingers almost savagely. "The place was on fire when I got back." Sam grips Dean's wrist and pulls it away from his other hand before he breaks his own pinky.

Dean's head whips up, eyes full of anguish and grief. His thoughts take a hairpin turn for the worse. "It wasn't Adam's fault that he was a fussy baby. He didn't deserve to - How could my father -"

Sam feels the vein in his temple throb as he tries to keep his calm. "You didn't deserve it either."

Dean shakes his head, now openly crying, but still trying to suck the tears back up. "I always tried to protect him… Keep him safe… It was just always my responsibility, you know? It's like I had one job… I had one job, and I screwed it up." He weeps. "I blew it. I dropped him, and the fire - I killed him. I -"

Sam cups the back of Dean's head and holds his gaze. "Dean, you didn't… He was already gone."

Dean blinks, and a pair of fat teardrops roll down his freckled cheeks. "What?"

"It was in the autopsy report." Sam tells him gently. "Shaken baby syndrome."

"Really?" Dean frowns, uncomprehending. He's too worked up to understand there was nothing he could have done to save his brother's life. He keeps spiralling. "But if I got there sooner, maybe I could have… Why didn't I? I could have saved him." He says with heartbroken conviction. "Then I… then I just forgot. How could I forget?"

He pulls his head away from Sam's hand, biting his lips raw. "How can I - How am I supposed to live with that? What am I supposed to do?" His arms tremble.

"I just want this pain to end." He cries, not once looking at Sam's furiously shaking head. He grabs the door handle. "Please, Sam. Let me go back to that bridge and get it over with."

The world comes to a standstill. Sam can't hear his breathing from the blood pounding in his ears as he tightens his grip on Dean's wrist like a vice. He can't let him open that door. It strikes him with sudden clarity that if his hold loosens, if he lets Dean slip out of his hands, a breakup won't be the only way Sam will lose him. He tried to prepare for this scenario too, but the severity of Dean's hopelessness surpasses his wildest imagination. Staring down this darkness is bone-chilling.

How stupid he has been before, thinking he pulled both of them along, that his input alone was the reason that stirred Dean forward. No - this is the moment when he feels it, that now both of their weights are on his shoulders, and he almost breaks in half from the responsibility of carrying his entire world on his back like Atlas holds up the mythological sky.

"Don't you dare give up." He says through his teeth. "Don't do that to me."

Sam knows killing himself isn't what Dean actually wants. He wouldn't ask for permission then. Rather, what he needs is reassurance, for Sam to tell him he is still loved and wanted, for Sam to hold him back and be someone Dean can keep fighting for. He just doesn't know any other way to ask for it. He thinks hurting himself and being repentant are the only routes for him to be good enough for affection. He still doesn't understand that Sam's love doesn't come with conditions, that it knows no barriers and no end.

Dean's exhale rattles in his chest. He tries to yank his arm away. "I'm tired."

Sam fists the hem of Dean's shirt. "I need you to keep fighting."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can." Sam hisses, nostrils flaring. He sounds hard and cold, but this isn't the time for pampering. It has to get across that he will never let Dean take his own life. Dean raises his eyes heavenwards, wet tracks running down his temples and into his hairline. His wrist wriggles in Sam's fist again, but Sam won't let it get free. This time, he doesn't even care about the circle of bruises he'll leave behind.

"You can do it." He repeats, cradles Dean's cheek and presses the tiniest of kisses to his salty-wet skin. It's palpable how Dean's self-destructive resolve breaks under his lips. Dean closes his eyes and pulls away from the touch, leans his head against the window and gives up on communication again. His hand slips from the door handle. Alright, you win, his body says. This time.

Sam swallows, carefully measures his breathing so as not to give away how fucking scared he is, and starts up the car again, releasing Dean's wrist and steering them back onto the road. The gold-green corn fields of Iowa wave them a sad goodbye as they race past them, swinging in the lazy summer wind. A ray of sunshine dries up Dean's tears, even through the glass. Sam counts Dean's inhales in the silence.

Dean doesn't cry again after that. He has a bunch of antidepressants prescribed that Jody tries to make him take diligently every day, but more times than not Sam finds their remains in the trash, and on one memorable occasion, thrown up in the backyard. They are having a hard time dealing with Dean's reluctance. But what is there to do, except for being patient?

Ever since they came back from the hospital, Jody and Bobby speak in hushed tones. It must drive Dean crazy when he cares to give a damn about it, Sam is sure. He's not sick in the traditional sense after all. But how do you treat someone who has just gone through a mental breakdown? How do you behave around them? How to be sympathetic and sensitive without condescension? Sam doesn't know. It's not like he is in the best of conditions either. His mind can't even comprehend what's happening. But he knows walking on eggshells around Dean is just going to rile him up.

Ironically, it blows up into Sam's face the second week they spend there. They are alone, will be until late that night, and Dean is obviously getting restless. He hasn't eaten in a day, no matter what was pushed in front of him. Sam is still keeping the emergency psychiatrist's advice and doesn't leave Dean alone for longer than twenty minutes at a time. It tires both of them out, puts a strain on their relationship. Sam fears Dean doesn't even want it to continue. They rarely ever touch, and nothing beyond platonic happened since Kansas. Will they ever go back to what they had? Sam will be crushed if they don't.

The saddest thing is, he had to realise he doesn't even know what comforts Dean in a situation like this. Usually, he focuses on Sam, puts all his efforts into doing something for him, but that's out of the question here. Right now, Dean is beyond the point of being able to do that. Alcohol would be his second choice, but that's a double no, what with the medication and everything. And Sam obviously can't let him dissociate and injure himself, so ninety percent of his coping mechanisms are ruled out. What does this leave them with?

"You have to eat." Sam nudges Dean's foot as they sit on opposite ends of the couch, the daily news droning on in front of them.

He understands why Dean doesn't want to. He remembers how depressed he was as a kid those rare times when Dean was separated from him, when he was sent to a different foster or to juvie. He used to be too sad to even think about food, and when someone forced it down his throat, it felt like chewing ash. It's easy to see how much harder getting the motivation is for Dean when he had just found out he lost his real brother years ago. But he has to push through that block.

Sam thought about reminding him that he, on the other hand, is still alive, but he's too afraid Dean might say he doesn't care because Sam means nothing to him. He is afraid of losing it himself if he delves too deep into that notion. His priority has to be Dean for now.

Dean pulls his legs under himself. Shrinking away again. "I know."

"I can get you a pie. Or we can reheat some soup. Jody made your favourite." Dean just sniffs and looks down at his lap. Sam doesn't let him off the hook, though. "Do you want something to drink?"

Dean shakes his head and looks up at him for once. "I want to go for a drive."

Finally. "Okay. We can do that."

"Alone, Sam."

Sam sighs. "You know you can't drive until you're off the meds."

Dean's face remains impassive. "So?"

"So, I can't let you. I'm sorry. But I'll take you wherever you want to go."

It happens so fast Sam startles - Dean jumps up to his feet, eyes shooting sparks of livid fire, and begins yelling. "I just want to be left alone. Is that too much to ask for?" He fumes. "I'm fed up with this constant goddamn supervision. Is this a house arrest or what? Why can't you go away, go back to California or to Kansas, why don't you just leave me alone?"

"Because I love you."

It takes the wind right out of Dean's sails. Sam shivers, like every single time he says this. It's not easy, because taking Dean's harshness will never stop hurting him, but he knows he needs to express it as many times as he can.

Dean opens and closes his mouth mutely, taken aback, then throws his hands up in frustration. "You don't even know who I am!"

Sam ignores the voice in his head that's eager to agree, and stands up, reaching out for Dean's hand. "You know that's not true."

Dean's anger is unstoppable at this point, an avalanche that started with a snowball. He slaps Sam's fingers away and stomps out of the room, huffing.

Sam calls after him. "Where are you going?"

"Can I take a crap in peace or are you gonna follow me in there too?" Dean yells back, rude and pissed off.

Great. Sam bows his head, flinching when the bathroom door slams shut with a bang. So much for making progress.

Dean slips into the shower with him that evening. Frames Sam's waist with tentative palms and just holds onto him, silent as a grave, until Sam extricates himself and turns to hug him properly. Dean folds into the embrace without resistance, pliant and apologetic. His stubble tickles Sam's jaw. Dear God, how much he missed this, how much it hurt not to have this… Three weeks of withdrawal felt like eternal torment. He secures his arms tighter around Dean's shoulders and gets a choked-off, needy noise in return. The water is almost scalding hot, the way Sam likes it when he is upset, but they are both shaking as their suppressed emotions unfurl. It's so goddamn good to hold each other again. Sam never wants to let go. The scarred plane of Dean's back expands with a huge sigh under his fingers, as if in agreement, don't let go, Sammy. His exhale leaves a trail of goosebumps on Sam's skin as they sway in place, pressing ever closer to get rid of the rift that began to tear them apart. Relief floods into Sam's veins as if the world has just found its axis again. Its overpowering force leaves no room for arousal in spite of how naked they are and how long it has been since Dean's smooth belly rubbed against his own. Sam closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of Dean's hair, not yet dampened by the shower. It smells cosy. Words escape him, but his mind runs wild, takes note of every single spot of contact and soaks up the comfort they radiate. His hands chase drops of water away from Dean's skin, caress them off, jealous of every touch that isn't his. The tip of Dean's nose pokes his throat and makes him swallow.

"Sorry for being an ass today." Dean whispers into his neck.

Sam battles the urge to pull back and kiss him breathless in answer. "It's alright."

Dean sounds like it's anything but alright. "I don't know what's up with me. I don't feel like myself."

Oh, he is not like himself, no question about it. He is… softer. His eyes, his expressions, his behaviour - they seem more innocent. Fragile like a butterfly's wing. Or maybe that's just Sam, seeing more into things than he should. He doesn't know. He doesn't know if it's permanent or just something that wobbled out of kilter but will swing back as soon as Dean starts coping. He doesn't know anything. But he wants Dean back. HisDean, not this hollow shell of him, his strong, funny, unshakeable big brother. It's selfish, and he feels plenty guilty about it, but he yearns for the support and the shelter Dean has always been for him. Sam has to grow up for real right now, and it's frightening to do it while Dean is dependent on his ability to succeed.

Dean's fingertips skitter down the length of his spine. "Can we go back to Palo Alto?"

Sam's eyebrows rise in surprise. He was under the impression that Dean didn't like California and considered it only as a temporary residence. He thought he would want to stay here, maybe even ask Sam to leave, angle for a smooth breakup. Although, it's obvious how going to a different therapist every week would tire someone out. Dean probably wants to go back to Missouri, someone he already trusts instead of trying to build a rapport with a new person. This must be the reason why he wants to go back.

Sam takes a tiny step back to look at Dean's face. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes."

A wish he can fulfil at last. "Okay." Sam gives him a faint smile. He really, really wants a kiss. But he still hasn't figured out what kind of affection would help Dean the most, and taking into account how volatile Dean has been all week, it would be like playing Russian roulette. He doesn't want to ruin the moment by pushing something Dean might not be happy about.

"Okay." Dean smiles back, curves those lovely lips of his for the first time since he left the hospital, his pearly white teeth flashing, and that makes Sam's entire week feel worthwhile. Honestly, he's that far gone.

They wash up in comfortable silence, shifting back and forth to fit under the spray, until Sam's fingers start pruning and Dean's cheeks turn healthily flushed, their sallow hue brightening. Sam takes a thorough look at him and feels his heart clench again. Dean lost considerable weight, his stance is the furthest thing from cocksure, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He seems worn-out and sickly compared to his usual self.

"What?" Dean blinks up at him with his pretty eyelashes clumped together.

Sam doesn't know what to say, what would be the right thing? It's goddamn irritating, but he can't help second guessing everything he does. His confidence has dropped to the floor. "Nothing."

Normally, Dean would have cracked a joke right about now, something lewd or cocky, but he doesn't grab the chance this time, just tilts his head to the side and casts his eyes down, trying for a flippant tone. "I know, I look like shit."

"No!" Sam rushes to cut in, then wilts at the bewildered frown Dean shoots his way. "I mean… You… It doesn't matter, okay?"

A hint of a gleam lights up in Dean's gaze. "Doesn't matter, huh?" He murmurs and steps closer. His arms snake back around Sam's waist, lower than before. "Sure it doesn't, Sammy?"

Sam freaking melts. "Positive."

The kiss Dean plants on his lips is feather-light and chaste, but Sam is touch starved and can't get enough after the first taste, has to chase Dean's mouth and lick into it until his lungs start burning. By the time he eventually pulls back and presses their foreheads together, he is blushing, and Dean's exhales are fanning his skin in sharp little puffs. That was embarrassingly desperate. A show of how much Sam has been neglecting his own needs. Any other time, Dean would fire another teasing comment, say something about how he didn't know Sam had it in him, but he just pushes up into another short peck and remains quiet. Sam feels out of sorts about it. He can't take more of this solemnity and the cloud of issues they keep skirting around. Has to stir up the mood somehow.

"Dean?"

"Yes?"

Now, if he doesn't jump on this one… "I kind of broke the door of the kitchen cupboard."

Dean huffs a laugh and disentangles himself. "How?"

Sam shrugs. Actually, he wrenched it off its hinges when Dean was asleep, knocked out by his medication. He was sort of mad at the entity who decided this should be Sam's messed-up disaster of a life. It wasn't a big deal. Not at all. "It was stuck and I pulled too hard, I guess."

A cautious grin appears on Dean's face. Sam could sing at the sight.

"This is why we don't have nice things, Sam." Dean tells him fondly and pulls back the shower curtain. He looks ten times better than he did this morning. The pressure around Sam's chest eases. "Come on, let's get outta here before I grow a pair of gills. I'll take a look at your handiwork before Jody gets home."