A/N: Second chapter posted today! Look at that! I feel so productive! :-)

Again, thank you to those of you who reviewed, favorited, and story alerted this! It means a lot!

Disclaimer: If this were mine, the show would consist of nothing but chick-flick moments and brotherly schmoop. But as it is, Supernatural has a plot. So clearly, it does not belong to me.

AU after episode 7x04

After spending the majority of the night sitting on the edge of his brother's bed, Dean now found himself standing outside the doorway to the living room. Apparently, skulking was becoming a habit of his.

"Cut the tie," Kathleen whispered. "Picture him cutting the tie..." Sam's face kept screwing up in a combination of annoyance and pain, tremors running through his body. And Dean could feel it. It was faint, hidden in the back of his mind but it was there, a phantom ache, a tension like his brain was being pulled apart. And he knew he was only getting the edge of it so he could barely imagine what Sam was feeling. It had to be bad though, had to hurt like hell.

Pun so not intended.

So when the nosebleed started, Dean made an executive decision and burst into the room, door bouncing off the wall. "Okay, break it up," he said, arms swinging, hands clapping in front of him. And he was apparently was becoming very good at skulking because Sam clearly had no idea he was anywhere near that room. Sam's eyes shot open and he almost fell off the couch. Which was a moment Dean was going to have to remember for future abuse, for when Sam got better. "He'll have to continue his sawing later."

"But, Dean," Kathleen started, turning to him with an amount of panic on her face that didn't at all fit the current situation, "this is a time sensitive issue! Your brother-"

"Is done," Dean interrupted. Holding his hand out to Sam, he waved his fingers, encouraging him to take it. "C'mon. We're getting you something to eat." But of course, Sam didn't take his hand, not at first. His eyes kept darting between it and Dean's face, as if trying to decide whether or not it was booby trapped and if it was, whether or not he wanted to be the booby. Which, okay, ouch. But Dean understood. Kind of.

Glancing over at Kathleen, Sam shifted to the edge of the couch. "I'm not-"

"Yes, you are hungry," Dean returned, stepping closer. "You get much thinner, you're gonna disappear on me, man. Sasquatches need to be fed. 'cuz they clearly can't feed themselves." He waved his fingers again, silently begging his brother to just take it and to stop looking at him like an insane person. Which he finally did. Take his hand that is. He never stopped looking at him like he was an insane person. Though Dean was pretty sure that was Sam's default look when it came to him anymore. But regardless of either of their mental health, Sam let himself be pulled to his feet, only glancing back at Kathleen once.

Pulling a tissue out of his pocket, he offered it to his brother, making him take it to stop the flow of blood running from his nose. And honestly, the crazy psychic lady was really starting to piss him off. "C'mon, let's get you cleaned up," he said quietly, shooting a glare at Kathleen before pushing Sam from the room, directing him to the kitchen.

"I can feed myself-" Sam started to say but did Dean care? Nope. So was Dean going to listen? Nope. So he pulled open the door to the refrigerator, sticking his head inside.

"Heated up lasagna or... this greenish stuff?" he asked, pulling out a container of something soupy and disgusting. And honestly, Dean didn't want to know what that was. Because it kind of looked like snot. Alien snot. "M'kay! Second executive decision of the day. We're going with the lasagna 'cuz that stuff?" he said, shaking the container. And he tried to chalk the gurgling noise he heard up to his imagination but he wasn't confident enough in that to not drop the container in the fridge as quickly as possible. Wiping his hand on his shirt, he continued, "Is dangerous."

"Dean..." Sam started to say, shifting on his feet. But Dean had no interest whatsoever in whatever Sam seemed to think he should have interest in. So he had no problem talking right over him.

"Kathleen!" he shouted, stepping into the doorway, staring out into the hall. "Want lasagna?" But no one answered and his eyes narrowed, glancing over at Sam who shrugged, shaking his head. And the strange feeling that pulled at the pit of Dean's stomach, the one he always associated with danger, with monsters, was strong, ordering him to go check it out. But Sam was already gone, vanished into the living room. And Dean didn't like that, didn't like the way Sam moving away made the feeling stronger.

His brother's lips were pursed when he came back, confusion on his face. "She left. Shoes and coat're gone." And Dean figured that was important, figured he should be investigating this more thoroughly. But there was lasagna. So shook his head, deciding to think about it more later. Maybe. If he was given a reason to.

"Probably went to find something she could actually eat," he sighed, moving back into the kitchen. Because that was entirely possible. Kathleen was really weird. Chances were she disappeared like this all the time. For no apparent reason and without telling anyone. She probably just wandered around outside for a couple hours, "She's holding out on us, Sammy," he grumbled, pulling the lasagna out of the refrigerator.

He could feel Sam's eyes on his back, burning into his skull as he dumped the leftovers into a tray and shoved them into the oven. His brother was never very good at concealing emotions, suspicion, confusion, or otherwise. Especially around Dean. So the question Dean knew he had was plastered across his entire face.

Turning around, Dean leaned against the oven, arms crossed over his chest. "What're you looking at, bitch?" he asked, making sure the note of teasing in his voice would be heard. "Not my fault all the good looks went to the first born."

And Sam smiled, an actual smile that almost made it all the way to his eyes. As he ducked his head, turning to go sit at the kitchen table, Dean felt a warmth spread through his chest. A comfortable warmth, as familiar as something he hadn't felt in years could be.

And when he forgot to set the timer and nearly burned the food, the way Sam laughed at him only made it spread.

"Stop it, Sam," he whispered from his bed, driving the heels of his hands into his temples. "It's not working. Go to sleep. Please." And he needed Sam to listen to him because honestly, he was about to go insane. Fingernails on a chalkboard. That's what it felt like, a phantom scratching at the back of his brain that wouldn't stop no matter how much he ignored it.

And if he had the energy to get up, he would have grabbed his gun and shot his head full of rock salt because that phantom had to go.

He saw Sam flinch, like he hadn't realized Dean was still awake. Once he did, he rolled over, turning away from the goddamn bathroom light that Dean really was going to blow up one of these days. "It's gotta work, Dean. It has to."

"Not tonight," Dean answered, rolling onto his side so that they were facing each other across the gap between the beds. "Just sleep, man. Deal with it tomorrow."

"It's not that easy." And Dean sighed, tucking his arm under his head, using it as a pillow. Because the pillow he had was kind of pathetic.

"Is it ever? What's wrong this time? Why isn't it that easy?" he asked, watching Sam's gaze drift away. And he couldn't let that happen because he didn't know where he would go, didn't know if he would come back. But at least the scratching had stopped which meant Sam had decided to leave the bond alone. For now.

Without the tearing in the back of his brain, he felt his eyelids growing heavy, felt his body settle into the mattress. "'cuz it's not," Sam snapped, rubbing his hand down his face.

"Well, that's helpful. Why not, Sam? Help me out here-"

"'cuz I can't go to sleep, okay!?" Dean pushed himself up onto his elbow, sleep completely forgotten in that short period of time. And Sam looked away, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. The thing was, Dean understood. The nightmares he had had of Hell were bad enough. Being psychically attached to Lucifer? He couldn't imagine what Sam must've been going through. Especially because the last time he slept, he was locked inside his head the entire night.

So that's why Dean kicked his blankets off, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, night air like a shock to his bed-warmed body. He stood, smirking as Sam's confused gaze flickered over to him. "Where're you going?" he asked, like Dean was the certifiably insane one. Which, okay, was probably justified as he was probably certifiably insane as well. But in this case, it was all about relativity.

Pursing his lips, Dean just shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. "I need coffee. Want some?" And he left the room, listening to the floorboards squeak a moment later as his brother moved to follow him.

Reaching the hallway, his trip to the kitchen was derailed when a loud snore erupted from the living room. And that wasn't right. Because there were bedrooms in this house. There were many bedrooms in this house from what he could tell. Which meant no one should be sleeping on the couch and consequently, no one should be snoring on the couch.

Standing in the doorway, he stared at their host, completely zonked out on a chair. And he didn't really get it, didn't understand why she was there when she really shouldn't have been. "Dude," he called as Sam entered the hallway, "wanna get me a bucket of warm water?"

"What?" Sam asked, coming to stand at Dean's side. "Wha- No. What the hell, Dean?" And Dean just shrugged. Honestly, it seemed like a pretty good idea to him. It would at least be something to pass the time, keep them awake since apparently, sleep wasn't on the cards for either of them. And besides, it was her fault for falling asleep in such a vulnerable location.

"Just wanted to see if the legends were true." He turned around to receive the full-force of the Sam Winchester Patented Bitch-Face. And he wondered if he should be concerned about the fact that seeing that again made him so happy... He'd decide later. "What?"

Sam just rolled his eyes, starting towards the kitchen. "You already tested that in eighth grade, Dean. On me. I think you've proved the point." He disappeared inside the room and Dean took that opportunity to get a closer look at what was going on in the living room. Because Kathleen had her own bed. And yeah, she was weird. That was a more than established fact. But... really?

Stepping over a discarded shoe, Dean edged around the coffee table, eyes searching out any abnormalities. But as he wasn't really sure what he was looking for, this task was actually kind of hard. Standing behind the couch, he found himself staring at that picture frame again, the one facing the wall. And he knew he shouldn't. He knew it was facing that direction for a reason. But then again, all that knowledge did was make him more curious, like putting a "Do Not Enter" sign on a door. Which was scientifically proven to be stupid.

So he flipped it around, finding himself staring at an old picture of Kathleen. She was several years younger than the Kathleen he knew, her hair falling in a braid past her shoulder. And she didn't look crazed, which he supposed was the most amazing part of the entire thing. She looked normal. But that wasn't what he was focusing on, wasn't the strange part of the picture. Well... the strangest part of the picture. That title belonged to the boy standing next to her. He looked young, only slightly younger than Kathleen looked. But he had her eyes. They were the same. And he knew they had to be related.

Shaking his head, he turned the picture around, glancing back over his shoulder at it as he walked into the kitchen. "Did Kathleen ever mention-" But Dean's train of thought was instantly derailed as he heard the sound of glass breaking. And he supposed that was what he got for not looking into a room before he entered it. Because that simple action went against every hunter instinct that had ever been ingrained in him. And he supposed he should be punished for being so stupid.

"Dean," Sam gasped, a slightly hysterical edge to his voice and Dean flipped around, eyes immediately locking on his brother's face, searching the area for any sign of a threat. On reflex, he reached for his gun, realizing he didn't have it on him because he was in his sleep clothes which only made him curse at himself. Because that was stupid action number two. And if not for the fact Sam couldn't sleep, he would have thrown himself back into bed and tried again in the morning.

But despite all of that and the tenseness in his muscles that told him something was very wrong, he didn't see anything, couldn't find any sign of anything dangerous. Not that that meant anything in their business. "Sam!? What is it?" He edged around the side of the room, back to the wall as he closed in on his brother. "What's wrong?" And it took that long for him to realize that Sam was staring at him, eyes wide, locked onto his face, broken coffee cup clutched in his now bleeding hand.

"Sam. Dude. You there?" he asked, stepping towards his brother only to have him flinch and step back. And now Dean was worried, was terrified. Because it was obvious to him that Sam was too. "Sammy?" Voice was softer, more careful, because he didn't know what they were dealing with, didn't know what Sam was dealing with. And aside from a strange pulling in the back of his brain, an almost numb feeling spreading there like he had been shot with Novocain, he couldn't tell if this had anything to do with Hell. "Sam?"

But then Sam's eyes cleared, shaking his head slightly. And he looked okay again, a small smile pulling at his lips that was so fake, Barbie would be proud. "Dean," he repeated, relief in his voice and Dean was about to answer, was about to demand to know what the hell that was about, but a dripping noise attracted both of their attentions, guiding it to Sam's hand. "Oh," Sam mumbled, as if he hadn't even realized it had happened. Which, Dean realized, he probably hadn't.

"Shit," Dean sighed, wrapping his hand around Sam's wrist, peeling his brother's fingers open. It wasn't bad, nothing they hadn't had before or even done to themselves when they needed blood for spells. But it was there and there was no way Dean was going to let it go without taking care of it. Glancing up at his brother's face, he picked sticky pieces of glass off Sam's hand, setting them on the island. "Jeez, Sasquatch..."

Reaching for the paper towel rack, he tore off a piece and dabbed it against the cut, mopping up the excess blood. "I can do it myself." The protest was half-hearted, more said because he felt he had to than anything else. And of course, Dean ignored it, pulling him over to the sink, turning on the warm water.

"Hold that there," he said quietly, sticking his brother's hand under the running water. And he knew it had to hurt, knew it had to sting, but of course, Sam said nothing, didn't even wince. "I'm gonna go see if there's any alcohol." Pulling open cabinets, he heard Sam chuckle, the sound strange and surprising given the situation.

"Really, Dean? Though I s'pose you have been dry for awhile-"

"It's not for me, asshole," Dean sighed, throwing open the doors under the sink. Because honestly, who knew where she hid her stash? It had to be there somewhere. "It's for your hand." Pulling back when he found nothing, he paused, staring at the sink. "Though maybe a little for me." He smiled at his brother and disappeared into the bathroom connected to the kitchen, looking for some rubbing alcohol at the very least. "All I'm sayin', Sammy, is that we have a long night ahead of us," he called, grabbing the peroxide bottle, stepping from the room. Waving it, he continued, "I say we take shots."

Sam laughed, pulling his hand from the water. He turned the faucet off and Dean grabbed another paper towel before Sam could even think about doing it himself. "You try to drink that stuff, I'll be driving you to the hospital for a stomach pump," Sam said as Dean took his hand, holding it over the sink as he poured the disinfectant. And that made Sam wince, made him try to pull his hand away, but then, Dean had known that was coming. It was ridiculous really, the fact that Sam could sit through getting stitched up with barely more than a twitch but when the alcohol came out, you would think Dean had dumped battery acid on him. Which was why he simply tightened his hold, grabbing the bandage off the counter as he started to wrap Sam's hand.

"Aw, Sammy, you know I'm never one to back down from a challenge," he answered, smirk pulling at his lips. And Sam just snorted, taking his hand back when Dean finished with it. "But you wouldn't be up to driving so I s'pose I'll have to pass this time." He clapped his brother on the shoulder, going to put the stuff back in the bathroom.

"Yeah, like you aren't tired," Sam shot back when Dean returned to the room, finally going to make the coffee that had been the point of this entire venture in the first place. Because he needed caffeine. It was the light of his life, the wind beneath his wings, the other half of his heart. The goddamn drug that would keep him from passing out within the next two seconds.

"Me? Naw. I'm a machine, dude. Don't need sleep." And before he could figure out where the bag was, Sam was pouring coffee into the coffee maker, getting it to start far faster than Dean would have ever been able to. Because most technology was evil to the point he was sure at least half of all electronics made were possessed. With special consideration made to the coffee makers.

After a minute, the machine beeped and Dean felt relief wash over him. Because he was tired now that the sawing in his head had stopped. But he had to stay up, had to. He was staying up because Sam was staying up and that was how it was working. So Mr. Sandman or whatever it was could go screw himself.

Sam picked up the two cups now filled with hot, steaming, coffee-smelling coffee. And Dean lunged for his but unfortunately, was not fast enough for his super ninja brother who was supposed to be sleep-deprived. Because Sam yanked it away, a smirk pulling at his lips as he stepped back. "Nope. This is all mine." And Dean watched as he started walking towards the table, calling over his shoulder, "You're a machine, dude. 'member?" Sam started laughing as Dean growled to himself, sinking into the chair next to the one his brother had taken at the table.

"Give," he said simply and Sam just smirked at him, taking an exaggerated sip of his drink.

"Mmm... That's good. Way better than the stuff at the gas stations." And the innocent look on his face, the way he peered over the rim like he had no idea what he was doing wrong, made Dean bite his lip, fist clenching under the table.

"Give- give the coffee," he said, holding his hand out, gesturing towards the full cup placed as far away from him as physically possible.

"Nope. Machines don't drink. You'll overheat or fry or something." Dean just stared at him, the most pissed off look on his face he could muster. Though it didn't seem to be working too well because Sam just continued drinking like everything was perfect. Which it very much wasn't. At all.

And apparently the little flicker of Dean's eyes towards the cup was a dead giveaway because Sam was already standing, both cups in hand before Dean had even made a move. "Sammy-"

"Go tighten your bolts or something." Dean felt himself push down the smile he felt building, trying to maintain his mock annoyance. Because Sam was laughing and smiling and this was right. And if he had anything to say about it, it was going to stay that way.

Huffing, he stood, crossing his arms over his chest. "Give the coffee or I'm pretty sure this machine'll explode and the shrapnel'll cut your arm off."

"You sure, Dean? 'cuz I don't wanna be responsible-" And Dean was there, snatching the cup from his hand and guzzling it down. Only to remember when Sam's genuine laughter cut through his mind that the coffee was hot and not at all something that should be consumed all at one time.

"Agh, god!" Dean gasped, dropping the cup onto the table, breathing deeply as he waited for the burning to fade. Which it didn't for far longer than he was happy about. And now his mouth was burnt. Great. "Shit." Turning to Sam, his eyes narrowed, watching as his brother casually sipped his coffee between barks of laughter. "Bitch."

And as he turned away to get ice from the fridge, he almost could have sworn he heard Sam say, "Jerk," in response.

But then again, it could've just been his imagination.

The next night, he found himself sitting on his bed, toeing off his shoes as the cell phone dialed. He made Sam promise to try and sleep tonight because coffee wasn't going to keep internal organs from shutting down, no matter what his brother tried to tell him. So that's what Dean was doing, finally going to sleep. And he was exhausted. All-nighters weren't agreeing with him as they once had. Though deep down, he knew he probably wasn't going to end up sleeping tonight either. Because Sam probably wasn't going to sleep tonight. Hell flashbacks all day didn't make for a particularly relaxed, restful person.

"Hey, Bobby. Just checkin' in," he said, tucking the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he pulled off his socks, tossing them in the general direction of their suitcases. "What've ya got?"

"Definite leviathan thing," he answered and Dean stood, eyebrows raising as Sam came into the room, swiping at his nose. "Actually, multiple definite leviathan things. I've been trackin' 'em 'round near where you are. Different groups of different numbers. There doesn't seem to be a pattern to what they've been doin' yet, but I'll keep lookin'."

"'kay," Dean said, throwing a sleep shirt at Sam who flinched and barely caught it. "Keep me posted."

"Will do. There's a loner here tonight. Gonna see what happens when I chop its head off."

Dean chuckled to himself, watching as Sam all but fell into bed.

"You do that. Have fun, Bobby." There was a sigh and a grunted goodbye before the man hung up, silence filling the line. Dean snapped his phone closed, dropping it onto his suitcase. "Tired, man?"

And Sam just nodded, pulling his T-shirt over his head as he moved to the bathroom. "'m gonna take a shower. See ya in a bit." He disappeared into the room, leaving Dean alone to stare after him. And Dean was going to wait, was going to find out what had happened, was going to ask why he kept flinching and jumping every time Dean walked into a room, every time he so much as looked at him.

But the second he sat down on the bed, he found himself laying down. And then he found his eyes closing. And then he somehow, miraculously, found himself asleep.

"Hey, Sam-"

"-'m gonna-out of here- Not letting-stay-Sammy-"

"Lies... I've never lied to you, Sam..."

Pounding heart lodged in his throat, chest unable to pull in enough air, Dean surged upwards, hands clenching and unclenching around the knife he now held in his hand. It had been under his pillow, just as it always was and always would be. But now, it was comforting, a reminder that there were still things out there that he could control, things that he could put down with just the skills he had.

Not that that helped their current situation.

Turning his head, he jumped when he saw Sam's wide eyes staring back at him from the other bed. The light from the bathroom shone behind him, causing his front to be completely shrouded in shadow. And had it been anyone else, it would have been really creepy. Actually, regardless of the fact he knew it was Sam, it was still creepy. "Damnit, Sam... Don't do that," he sighed, running his hand down his face.

Sam didn't answer at first, but he saw the contemplative look in his eyes, knew he was thinking something. Which was never a good thing where Sam was concerned. "Should we talk about what happens when I lose it now or later?" Sam asked and Dean dropped his hand to his lap with an audible smacking sound, rolling his head to glare at his brother.

"Shut up, Sam," he answered, the warning in his voice unmistakable. But Sam didn't listen. Not that that was particularly surprising. He never listened, especially when Dean desperately wanted him to.

"I choose now-"

"I said, shut up," Dean growled, dropping his knife so he wouldn't be tempted to stab himself with it. Instead, he fisted the bed sheets, closing his eyes.

"-You're gonna have to end it 'cuz when the devil wants out-"

"Oh for god's- Shut up!" Dean shouted, feeling far less relief than he should have that Sam actually listened to him and went quiet. The Sam of Stanford never would have. The Sam he knew before he went to Hell never would have shut up. And that just made Dean realize all over again that despite the few steps that had been made in the right direction over the last few days, there was so far to go. They were only the beginning, if even that. For all he knew, they weren't even out of the starting gate. "Please," he added, simply to make himself feel better. Not that it worked, but still.

And it stayed silent for several minutes, giving Dean the time to replace the knife under the pillow and drive the heels of his hands into his eyes. "We've gotta talk about it, Dean."

"No," Dean responded, lying down and pulling the covers up to his chin. "No, we don't. 'night, Sam."

"But-"

"No," he snapped, rolling over onto his back. "I've been working my ass off trying to keep you sane and you keep actin' like you don't even give a shit. So shut up." And yeah, there were a lot of better ways to word that, a lot of ways that wouldn't have had Sam turning over, putting his back to Dean as he faced the bathroom light. But at that point, he hadn't had the mental capabilities to care. And as he squeezed his eyes shut, images of Hell, Sam's Hell playing in his mind, he tried not to see the parallels between what he just said and his own year before his deal came due. When Sam spent all his time looking for ways to save him and he spent most of his trying to forget. And if he was thinking it, he knew that Sam was thinking it too.

And in the silence that stretched between them, there was a finality, as if something was about to end. But for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what it was.

A/N 2: The proverbial shit is about to hit the proverbial fan. If you're still reading, thanks for sticking with me!