A/N: Because apparently the angst in the episode wasn't enough, I had to add more. Originally this was going to be a one-shot, but it got too big, so I decided to split it into two chapters. Here is the first one, to see if anyone finds it interesting enough and want me to continue. So, if you like it, please leave a review. They are more than appreciated!

Title is from Temptation by Moby.

He needs food. Well, pure cholesterol disguised as food, but food nonetheless. And alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.

That's the extent of his thoughts as he sits behind the wheel of the impala, driving to the nearest diner. He doesn't think of anything else; can't afford to, otherwise he'll either have a breakdown, or smash the car to a pole. And it would be just his luck, when Dean starts caring about his baby again for Sam to wreck it. So. He doesn't think. He just drives.

The cashier at the diner gives him a puzzled look as he orders enough burgers and pies to feed half a dozen people, but remains silent. The girl at the liquor store is more vocal, expressing her concern at the amount of booze he purchases, but Sam simply shrugs and avoids her questioning gaze, handing her the money and exiting the store without waiting for change.

He's extra careful at the ride back to the bunker (he can't think of it as home, not when the first image that comes to his mind at that is his brother chasing him down the hallways of what was supposed to be their one safe place), as he can feel the adrenaline and the fear and the need that had kept him up and running the past couple of days slowly fading. And he doesn't have the luxury of crashing now. He needs to make it a bit longer. Just a bit longer, so he can deliver the food to Dean and then he can hide in his room and drink until he forgets these last days completely, (or even the last couple months; that would be ideal).

He makes his way to Dean's room and hates that he feels wary as he raises his hand to knock on the door. Before, he'd have just come in, a witty retort ready to counter Dean's teasing. Before, he wouldn't have felt apprehensive of the person behind the closed door. But before feels like such a long time ago.

Dean answers without looking, his gaze directed at his phone screen, and asks Cas (where is he, by the way? Did he just leave?) what he wants. Sam opens his mouth to say it's him, but all that comes out is a strangled sound, that doesn't resemble any known word. Apparently though, it's enough to get Dean's attention, since his eyes move away from the phone to Sam's face; and he stares. Sam sees surprise, relief, wariness, shame on his brother's face-so many emotions, all gone too quickly for Sam to analyze. Not that he particularly feels up to the task right now.

''Sam?'' Dean says, and it's his voice, the one the demon had used, yet it's different. The word is spoken low, more softly as if Dean wants to show he means no harm. And yeah, if that isn't ironic, Sam doesn't know what is.

Something must show in his face, because Dean averts his gaze, directing it somewhere above Sam's left shoulder.

''Sammy?'' he asks again and Sam can't suppress his flinch at that. If Dean notices, (and he must have, hunters are trained to be completely aware of everything around them, and Dean is nothing if not an excellent hunter), he doesn't mention it, choosing instead to say, ''You okay?''

Sam wants to laugh at that, except he's afraid of how it will sound. So he clears his throat and finally addresses his brother.

''Yeah, 'm fine. Brought you some food, figured you might be hungry.'' He picks the bag up from where he had left it on the floor in order to knock. Being one-handed is really starting to get on his nerves.

Dean looks at the bag as if it's a strange and possibly dangerous creature. Sam pushes it towards him. ''There're burgers and fries in there, pie, y'know, the whole nine.''

His brother's face openly registers shock now. ''Y-you got me pie?'' he asks, staring at the bag as if he could somehow see its contents through it.

''Uh, yeah?'' Sam is getting more and more tired the more time he spends standing there. He wasn't expecting actual conversation. ''Not a problem with it, is there?''

''No, no,'' Dean replies immediately, grabbing the bag and freeing Sam's hand. Sam figures that's it and starts to walk away, to the direction of his own room, when Dean's voice causes him to stop and turn around.

''I… thank you.'' Dean's tone has sincerity written all over it. Sam nods, managing a smile he hopes doesn't look too much like a grimace and then finally, finally, he's able to escape to his room.

He closes the door and all but collapses on the bed. He stays still for a couple minutes, fatigue rendering him nearly immobile. He wants to sleep, but he knows he won't be able to, his head too messed up, all kinds of thoughts swirling around, creating chaos.

He did it. He saved his brother.

You never had a brother. Just an excuse for not manning up.

No. That's not true, that could never be true, no matter what happened. Ruby and Lucifer and Crowley and Gadreel, they could never change that. They're brothers, together.

You noticed I tried to get as far away from you as possible?

No.

Away from your whining, your complaining.

No. He did it. He managed to save him this time. Dean is human again – except he had been almost human and still wanted to kill him. His mostly-cured brother had come after him with a hammer, had hated him enough to want him dead even without the demon being front and center. And how the hell is he supposed to deal with this?

Whiskey. He needs whiskey. A fuck-ton of it.

It's the only way to shut his thoughts up.

Two hours later he's nowhere near drunk enough and the only thing he's got for his trouble is a splitting headache and a whole lot of anger coiling in his gut. He thinks maybe it's about time he called it quits and went to sleep. If he's lucky (and when is he ever?), the alcohol he's consumed will be enough to mute his thoughts for the night. Yeah, he should do that.

It's just his aforementioned luck that Dean picks this precise moment to come a-knocking. Only he doesn't knock so much as push the door open and poke his head inside, his expression guarded as if he's not sure what to expect. Sam jerks and his hands flail around in search of a weapon, a knife, a gun, anything that can be used to protect himself from the imminent threat… and then his mind registers that he's thinking of Dean as a threat. He can see how much his reaction hurt his brother, he's looking at Sam with startled, wide eyes (green, not black, never black, never again) and he's put his hands in front of his body, palms up, to indicate he comes in peace. Sam hates seeing Dean having to act like that, but he hates even more that his body's first course of action at the sight of Dean is to go to defense mode. It feels wrong, absolutely wrong, yet he can't find it in him to completely regret it.

''Hey, Sammy,'' Dean says as he comes in, and this time Sam's flinch is more discreet, seeing as his body is already coiled tight. Dean doesn't seem willing to offer anything more to the discussion so Sam heaves a sigh and wills his body to relax, assume a more comfortable position on the mattress.

''What is it, Dean? Do you want something?''

''Just thought I'd check up on you,'' comes the answer, along with a tentative smile, seemingly more cheerful now that Sam no longer looks like a frightened animal in his presence.

''Well, I'm fine,'' Sam answers a bit too quickly, and if there's a slur to his words, it's almost imperceptible.

''Yeah, I can see that,'' Dean drawls, his eyes sweeping across the room, and no doubt taking note of the disheveled state of both the room and its occupant. ''This place smells like a distillery.''

''In case it escaped your notice, I've been pretty busy trying to find my brother and getting him cured from being a freaking demon. So, excuse me if I don't really care what my room smells like right now.''

''Well, at least we know you're still bitchy on booze.''

Sam is really not in the mood for Dean's smartass comments. ''Don't you think you're far from the right person to be criticizing anyone about drinking?'' It's a low blow and they both know it, but Sam needs Dean to not be here at the moment and if he has to stoop to petty jabs, so be it.

Dean's expression hardens for a moment, but he visibly pushes any anger at Sam's comment back and tries again. ''I'm just worried about you, Sam.''

''Really? Coulda fooled me.''

''Look, I know these past few days have been far from ideal-''

''You don't say,'' Sam cuts him off, sarcasm and anger blending together in his words.

''Okay, you're mad, I get it-''

''I'm not mad, Dean. 'M just tired.'' It's not strictly true; Sam is mad, at Dean, at himself, at their fucking rotten luck; but he's also tired. So, so tired.

And he can tell why Dean's here. He's feeling guilty for what he said, what he did, so for once his brother is the one willing to initiate a heart-to-heart. And in any other circumstances Sam would have welcomed it. But not now. Not after everything.

''Can you please get out?'' he asks before Dean has a chance to open his mouth.

''What?'' Dean asks, surprise coloring his tone.

''Get out. Whatever you want, a hunt, a talk, another round through the hallways, it can wait until tomorrow.''

Dean looks completely taken aback now, but he doesn't give up. He's stubborn, Sam will give him that.

''I just wanted to talk.''

''Tomorrow. Now get out.''

''Sam,'' Dean is starting to get angry now, and no, that won't do.

''I said,'' he starts again, making sure his words ring loud and clear, ''get. out. '' And he doesn't know what does it this time, what Dean sees that convinces him, but he finally seems to get it, and he exits the room with one last backwards glance. Sam slumps down on the mattress as he hears the door click shut.

It doesn't take longer than a few minutes of staring at the closed door for his vision to get blurry. That's when the tears come. No heaving sobs, no heart-wrenching cries. Just tears, silently tracing paths down his face. He doesn't have the energy for anything more.

The ceiling is grey. But not dark grey, more like a soft color, as if it had been mixed with a bit of white before it was painted. There are some hairline cracks along the edge, presumably due to age or earthquakes.

Dean decides he has officially been staring at his bedroom ceiling for way too long.

Except he doesn't know what else to do. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do. Cas is gone, Sam clearly does not want to talk to him (not that Dean can blame him; God the things he had said…), and the demon-well the demon simply didn't care. He misses that, that feeling of freedom, of not being weighed down by guilt about so many terrible things, not having any obligations to anyone or anything. He had asked Sam to let him go, and if he had listened, he would have been better off, without a brother who used every trick in the book to get under his skin, hurt him, make him feel worthless, and then try to kill him for good measure. And he would have done it too. If Cas hadn't arrived at that precise moment to hold him back, his little brother's skull would be splattered on the wall and Dean would have gone on his merry way.

The thought makes him sick.

He misses the demon, yeah. But the thing is, the expression on Sam's face when he said welcome back, Dean, it was full of relief, of joy, of love. And Dean will choose that over being void of emotions every time.

Only, he highly doubts Sam would believe him now.

And what I'm gonna do to you, Sammy. Well, that ain't gonna be mercy either.

God, he had truly meant it, hadn't he?

How could he do all these things? How could he blame Sammy for Mom's death, accuse him of sucking his life out of him, mock him about never having a brother. These were all things Dean knew his brother deep down feared were true, things Dean would spend his dying breath denying. And yet there he had been, sneering at Sam, dredging up his deepest fears as if they meant nothing.

But he didn't mean it, of course he didn't. Demons lie, everyone knows that. But there's a sneaking doubt inside him, growing more and more the longer he considers this. The demon was part of Dean, knew Dean's inner thoughts and feelings, even if he chose to ignore them for the most part. So, does this mean that there is a part of Dean that really believes what he had said? That hates his brother, that wants to kill him? Dean refuses to believe that, completely and vehemently, but the tendrils of doubt are still there and it terrifies him.

He needs to do something. Anything to distract him. Maybe take the impala for a drive? Then he remembers the state it was in and his offhand comment that it was just a car and he cringes. I'm sorry, baby.

He gets up, determined to at least set things right with his car since his brother is not an option. However, as he passes in front of Sam's room he pauses. Part of him wants to go in, make sure Sammy is okay, another part viciously reminds him he's probably the last person Sam wants to see right now.

But. Sam is his weak spot. He always has been, and so it feels like he has no choice when he slowly pushes the door open and peers inside.

The light is still on and the floor is decorated with several liquor bottles, though thankfully, not all of them are empty. And in the middle of the bed, a Sasquatch-shaped brother who has fallen asleep.

Dean's eyes soften as they take in the -finally relaxed- form of his little brother. He's lying on his stomach, which can't be the most comfortable-wait.

Lying on his stomach means his injured arm is pinned down by the rest of his body. Shit.

Dean rushes to Sam's side, his hand gentle but insistent as he tries his best to maneuver Sam to his back and free his arm without waking him. It's a slow process, Dean freezing any time Sam makes a sound in his sleep, but eventually it's done. Dean reaches over and readjusts the sling so it supports the arm fully, and all the while he wonders when Sam got hurt, how and who did this to him. Can't stop thinking he should've been there. If not to prevent the injury, then to help in the aftermath, administer first-aid, stitch up a wound if necessary. Winchesters are used to taking care of their injuries themselves, without involving hospitals. How bad had it been, that Sam had had to get a sling for it, and it still hadn't healed? And how could Dean not have been there?

He feels a lump rise in his throat and he suppresses it quickly. Casting one last glance at Sam to make sure he's comfortable, he leaves the room and heads outside, determined to work on his car until it's nice and shiny again. He loses track of time, the only thought on his mind as he stumbles back inside after several hours being his bed. He doesn't remember falling asleep, or having any dreams, but when he wakes up there are tear tracks on his face and the pillow is wet where he had laid his head.