Dean expected nightmares. Nightmares were Sam's old friend, after all. He'd had them almost since Dean was old enough to remember. Anytime somebody got slung up against a tombstone or was forced to spend, say, a week as a djinn smoothie, Sam worked through his fears in the night - his subconscious driving the bus.

So Dean sat on the floor, propped up against the corner of Sam's bed while Sam slept, listening to his little brother breathe and wondering when he was going to get around asking that most important question.

"Why'd you ditch me, Dean?"

And when he did, Dean had no idea how he was going to respond. "I was under a spell, Sam." seemed pretty lame now. This Sam, this new Sam, was strong and independent. He'd been through more than any man anywhere had ever been known to survive. He'd spent a week being slow-sipped by a damned alpha djinn, after all, and had lived to tell the tale. Suddenly, Dean's little hex bag anecdote seemed a tad … anticlimactic.

And Dean felt foolish for falling prey. He cursed himself everyday for letting some nameless, faceless witch call the shots that had led to all this. He still had no idea of the why or the how or the who. He just knew the what - the pain and the fear and the regret - knew because he'd lived with it every day for more than a year. Worse though - Sam had been the one to reap his punishment. Whoever had planted the hex bag had done so to torment Dean, but it was ultimately Sam who'd paid the price, and for that, Dean couldn't forgive himself.

There was still a world of payback coming for someone, and Dean was determined to mete it out. But first he had to find some way to explain his unforgivable actions to his brother.

And he'd sooner take a beating. He'd sooner have his nails yanked out one by one - sooner revisit that waitress from Tampa.

He shuddered.

But when Sam started to stir, and Dean realized his moment of quiet introspection was over, he leaned in to face the boy that he'd happily give his life for ten times over and started the dialogue that he knew could very well end him.

"How ya doin' Sammy?"

Sam's eyes creaked open, and he gazed at Dean sleepily.

"Feel good." He smiled lazily, still under the influence of the high-powered pain killers the doc had prescribed.

Dean grinned, "Yeah? Those're some good drugs, hunh?"

"The best." He paused. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Need to go …"

"Oh, okay." Dean rose to his feet. "I gotcha, little brother. Come here."

Between the two of them, Sam made it to the door of the bathroom before nudging Dean away. "I can go in alone, Dean."

Dean looked unsure, but short of forcing his way inside, he didn't see much of an alternative. "You sure, Sam?"

"Yeah … got this. Honest."

"Well, okay, but I'm hanging right here."

"Gross, Dean." Sam chastised, closing the door.

Dean chuckled. He hadn't heard that word in … well, in over a year.

Afterward, when Sam was tucked comfortably back in bed with an extra pillow behind his head and a glass of orange juice sporting a green straw clutched in his hand, Dean bit the bullet.

Hey Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"How come you haven't … asked me why?"

Silence.

"Why what, Dean?" he answered fuzzily.

"Why I … left." Dean swallowed.

Sam had to think hard to intersect his brother's train of thought, "You mean the motel?"

"Yeah. That."

"Sam shrugged, "Cause I know."

Dean turned to look at his brother. "What?"

"S'mid-life crisis."

Dean blinked. "Sam, I'm twenty-one."

Sam lay back and tossed an arm over his eyes. "That's like … fifty? in Winchester years, right? You know, like … every human year is seven years for dogs? Winchester years … they're probably worse."

Dean nodded at this train of thought, impressed. Sam had a point. Could he ...?

No, he had to come clean. "It wasn't a mid-life crisis, Sam."

Sam shifted to look down at his brother. "It wasn't?"

Dean shook his head, dejectedly, and stared straight back into Sam's eyes sadly.

Sam couldn't quite tell what he saw there, but it made his heart die a little. "You … you meant it?" He asked, voice breaking, hurt all over again. "All that stuff you said about hate ... hating me? Hating having to cook for me and stuff?"

"God, no, Sam." Dean pleaded. "Don't think that. Please don't ever think that, Sammy. I could die ten thousand times over thinking about all the bitchy things I said to you that night. And not a word of it was true. Ever. Not ever, Sam. I swear." Dean knew he wasn't exactly playing fair - broaching the subject when Sam was so obviously out of it, but he couldn't bring himself to wait even a second longer to find out just how much his brother hated him.

Sam stared at him silently, and not - Dean hoped - reproachfully.

"You're probably not gonna believe this," Dean started, laughing nervously.

"What?"

Dean looked up guiltily, "Hex bag." He said simply.

Sam blinked.

Dean cleared his throat. "It was a hex bag, Sam. It … well it … fell … out of the lining of my jacket finally when it got torn. As soon as it hit the floor, the spell was over. I could think again. Bobby tossed it in the fire, and the first thought I had, when I came back to myself, was you. 'Course that was eight months later, sadly."

Sam stared, "A hex bag?"

Dean nodded miserably as Sam's mouthed started to twitch.

"What, Sam?"

But Sam was making little muted noises, and Dean was suddenly worried that he was trying not to cry. He seemed to be having trouble controlling the muscles around his mouth too.

"Sam, are you … are you … laughing?"

Sam snorted then - not muffled, like someone trying to cover up a chuckle - but a full-on snort that sounded equine in nature. And from the snort was quickly born that all-out, nothing held back, roar of a laugh that Dean hadn't heard in more months than he cared to remember.

"Sam?" Dean's mouth twitched. "Sam, dammit. I'm trying to be serious here."

But Sam couldn't do anything more than stare at his brother helplessly, tears streaming down his face, as he gave in to the hilarity of the situation. And as Dean stared back at Sam like he'd lost his damned mind, he felt the first hitch of a giggle rising in his chest. He launched his pillow at his brother's face.

"Dammit, Sam, you little bitch," He snorted, "This isn't funny!"

But once Sam began howling, Dean lost it. Both brothers sat doubled over - one on the bed, one off - helpless in the release that had been thirteen months in the making -waiting for that single moment in time when two brothers would be reunited once again in true Winchester family tradition - one under the influence of heavy drugs and the other, beer.