A/N: I know it's been done, but the muse wouldn't leave me alone, so here I offer my own little tag for 1.10 (Asylum). Spoilers through Ep 1.11 (Scarecrow). Episode dialogue in bold. I own nothing, just enjoying playing in the Supernatural sandbox.

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Dean was exhausted, in pain, and honestly depressed (though he would never use that word). This last hunt had been brutal, and more than just physically. He had called dibs on the shower…not that Sam was about to fight him on anything right now, and spent the following hour tending to the welts left by the rock salt that SAM had shot him with. The memory of the words that had been spat at him - words he knew Sam never would have said if not influenced by Dr Ellicott, but which had more than a grain of truth in them - kept creeping into his subconscious in spite of his struggle to focus on the here and now…

"We gotta burn Ellicott's bones and all this will be over, and you'll be back to normal." he'd said, reeling from the pain of the salt blast Sam had fired at him.

"I am normal. I'm just telling the truth for the first time. I mean, why are we even here? 'Cause you're following Dad's orders like a good little soldier? Because you always do what he says without question? Are you that desperate for his approval?" Sam loomed over him, seeming even larger than usual.

"This isn't you talking, Sam."

"That's the difference between you and me. I have a mind of my own. I'm not pathetic, like you."

"So what are you gunna do, huh? Are you gunna kill me?"

"You know what, I am sick of doing what you tell me to do. We're no closer to finding Dad today than we were six months ago."

"Well, then here. Let me make it easier for you." he'd said, holding his own Smith & Wesson toward Sam, mentally willing him to snap out of it. "Come on. Take it. Real bullets are gonna work a hell of a lot better than rock salt." Something in him couldn't help it, so he goaded Sam when he hesitated. "Take it!"

So he took it. And pointed it at him. Dean had stared back at Sam in disbelief.

"You hate me that much? You think you could kill your own brother? Then go ahead. Pull the trigger. Do it!"

Dean flinched at the memory of the empty click of his weapon's chamber. He had, of course, removed the bullets first. He wasn't stupid. But even taking that precaution, he never in a million years would have thought Sam, even at his angriest, would have pulled the trigger. And not just once, but several times. It made him wonder if he even knew his brother at all. Oh, Sam had apologized after the fact, and claimed that he had meant nothing he said or did, but there was still a nagging thread of doubt lingering in Dean's head.

"Dean?" a hesitant, quiet voice enquired at the door. He remained silent, not wanting to engage his brother tonight. "Just checking if you are ok…need anything?" Dean looked up and stared at his reflection, the weary expression mirroring the weariness in his heart. The question was just like the caring brother he thought he knew…but now… Eventually he heard Sam walk away from the door, the sound of the bed springs telling him he was at least going through the motions of going to bed. Dean continued stalling in the bathroom until it began to feel ridiculous and cowardly, only then did he finally emerge to find the room dark except for the light by his bed and a Sam-sized lump unmoving in the far bed. Wearily he sat on his own bed, turning the light off before he laid back carefully to not jostle his chest more than necessary. Staring up at the ceiling he listened to Sam's breathing, obvious to him from years spent sharing rooms that he was not actually asleep, until he heard him finally succumb to his exhaustion. Only then did he allow himself to fall asleep.

–SPN–SPN–SPN–SPN–SPN–

It had been quite a week since then. Dad had called and given them a new case, so they had headed out to Burkittsville, Indiana. Only to have his stubborn, bull-headed brother argue with him and leave him to find Dad… In his defense, though, Sam had returned in time to save he and Emily from the freaky scarecrow, and had pledged that going forward they were in this together. It seemed like things were finally on an even keel and they were back on the same page.

Maybe it was because of the relief he felt that he and Sam were on solid ground again, or maybe it was just because there still was not a night when Sam didn't wake up in a cold sweat from a nightmare, that Dean didn't clue into what was going on with his brother right away. It was a couple nights after they left Burkittsville in the dust that he was awoken abruptly with Sam shouting his name.

"Dean!"

Dean rolled right up off the bed, knife clutched firmly in hand, ready for whatever danger was threatening. It took a few seconds to realize that there was no threat, just Sam tossing and turning in the throes of a particularly bad nightmare. Damn it, kid, he thought, you've got to get over losing Jess sometime…

"Dean! No…!" Huh. Sam calling his name was new…even as he went to try to wake Sam, Dean wondered what exactly he was dreaming.

"I'm so sorry…no, no, no. Please God, no! Not Dean!" Freezing with a hand outstretched out to shake Sam, Dean knew this one was bad and that he needed to pull Sam out of it quickly. Maybe that's why he used less caution than he would have, and as a result found himself on his ass, holding his cheek where Sam had struck before awakening fully. Rubbing the sore spot ruefully, he made to climb to his feet, but glancing up he was floored by Sam's reaction. Sam was cowering as far away on the bed as possible, legs drawn up and head tucked into his arms. A feeling of dread washed over Dean. He hated chick-flick moments, but he had a sneaking suspicion what Sam's dream had featured, and knew that they needed to talk about it for any hope of future sleep.

"Sam." he said, clambering to his feet and sitting on the edge of the bed. There was no acknowledgement, so he reached over and put a hand on Sam's ankle. He flinched badly, but Dean refused to let go. He could feel the tremors running through Sam's body, and his still rapid heartbeat.

"Sam. Talk to me." The shaggy locks shook a negative, but the head did not rise. "You clocked me a good one, don't I deserve to know why you hit me?" he pushed, knowing he had to get Sam to open up. Sam's head rose abruptly at that, and Dean was floored by the desolation in his eyes. "Hey, hey" he hastened to add, "I'm fine, really. I shouldn't have startled you awake, so it's really my own fault."

"Don't do that." Sam said lowly, voice raspy.

"Do what?"

"Try to absolve me…"

Dean looked at him puzzled. "You did nothing wrong."

"I SHOT you! I killed my brother…all the blood…your blood.." Sam's voice shredded, and Dean suddenly knew exactly what his nightmare had been. It was the asylum all over again, but with bullets in the chamber. He ran a hand down his face, knowing this would not be an easy fix. He himself still had residual angst from that experience, but he'd mostly let it go and acknowledged that he DID know his brother, and that Sam would never have pulled the trigger of either weapon if he'd been in his right mind.

"Sam, I'm right here. I'm not dead. We're ok…"

"Dean, I could have killed you. I would have…" Sam swallowed, fighting a losing battle with tears, "...I would have had to live with the knowledge that I killed you. As it is, I have to live with the knowledge I could have…" He was staring at his shaking hands now, as if they were covered in Dean's blood.

"Stop. Just stop." Dean scooted further onto the bed and grabbed Sam's hands in his own. "No good comes from going down this path. You weren't in your right mind. You didn't kill me. You never would have done any of it if Ellicott hadn't whammy'd you."

"How do you know?" Sam spat, agonized, "I was angry. I was angry at you, at Dad, at life. But never in a million years did I think I had it in me to point a gun at you, let alone pull the trigger. Apparently I do, though. How do I trust myself, ever again? How can you trust me ever again?" He pulled his hands free and dashed impatiently at the tears smearing his face.

"Sammy, look at me." Dean waited till Sam finally reluctantly raised his reddened, weary eyes. "I do trust you. You need to believe me, even if you can't believe yourself. I know you would never intentionally harm me. You were being controlled. Yes, I know Ellicott started with some genuine anger you were harboring, but he twisted and warped it into something that wasn't you. Will never BE you. You need to forgive yourself, man. I have." Even as Dean said it, he realized he meant it, completely. Something settled in him, a peace that he had not really had since the whole experience.

Sam stared at him, trying to gauge his sincerity. Dean stared back, willing Sam to believe him.

Let it go, brother. We're good. I'm good.

I don't know if I can. I'm so sorry.

I know. I forgive you. Let me help.

Sam nodded finally in acceptance. He scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. Dean lightly smacked his bicep and rose, headed for the bathroom. He was back in a moment with a cold, wet washcloth that felt like heaven on Sam's swollen eyes, and another one for his reddening cheek. Sam looked over at him sheepishly and opened his mouth to apologize, but was speared by a look that clearly communicated don't, so he remained silent. Taking the wash cloths back, Dean chucked them in the bathroom doorway, then plopped back down on his own bed.

"Think we can grab a bit more shut-eye?" he drawled, even as he laid back down, eyes closed. He opened them again and eyed Sam when no response was forthcoming. Sam had not moved, but was just staring into space. Dean shook his head, figuring he had done all he could to help and closed his eyes again. Listening, he heard Sam finally sigh and settle himself back in bed. As he slowly drifted off, he heard his brother whisper, "Dean?"

"Mmm?"

"Thank you."

"Welcome, Bitch."

"Night, Jerk." Both brothers smiled into the dark, settled, and then there was silence.

Dean awoke to a heavenly smell the next morning. Opening one eye, he saw the coffee cup on the nightstand - complete with designer name. Ooh, the good stuff! Raising himself up, he glanced around and saw the open computer on the table, a box of muffins, but no Sam. Just then the bathroom door opened and the missing brother emerged in a cloud of steam.

"Oh good, you're awake!" Sam chirped. Yes, he honest-to-goodness chirped. Wow, I guess the chick-flick moment was worth it. Dean thought, then started listening again to what Sam was rambling on about, "...found us a new hunt. Several kids have gone missing over the years from the same home. Looks like a rawhead…nasty creatures…" He smiled, nodding where appropriate, and sipped at his coffee. A cheerful Sam gave him hope that they could move forward with this new found equilibrium, and leave the past in the past. Throwing off the covers, Dean rose and began getting dressed. He and Sam against the world? He liked those odds. This monster didn't stand a chance!