This story is set during the first season so may contain spoilers for canon events in that time. It fits loosely in the gap between episodes 1:11 and 1:12. Warnings for some violent scenes, depressed!anxious Dean and angry!anxious Sam.

Disclaimer: Dean, Sam and any characters from the TV show Supernatural do not belong to me in any way (sadly). I am just playing with the characters and paying homage to the truly great series that is Supernatural. This story is written purely for enjoyment, with no profit of any kind expected, intended or desired.

What did I do?

Chapter One

Now

Dean shifted his position behind the wheel, feeling uncomfortable and miserable. The waves of anger coming from Sam were almost palpable, flooding across the space between them and causing his skin to prickle uneasily. Lately it seemed as though Sam was angry all the time and Dean was starting to feel he couldn't do or say anything without riling his little brother.

.

Earlier…

It had started a few weeks earlier. There'd been a string of small, simple jobs, none of them particularly memorable, followed by the inevitable few days in a run-down motel while they searched for the next case.

Dean noticed that Sam was moody, but at first he didn't think it was anything unusual. They lived and worked in close-quarters, so it was natural that sometimes they just got on each other's nerves, simple as that. Dean expected him to snap out of it after a couple of days, but instead Sam became more and more angry.

At first Dean took it all in his laid-back way, "It's just little Sammy havin' a bitch," he thought. But the bitching went on, and on, and on and every time Dean turned around he could see Sam's bitch-face firmly in place.

After a while Dean got angry too, then really angry. There'd been a couple of fierce arguments and even a few little scuffles over silly things like socks.

Despite being annoyed, Dean didn't really have the heart to fight with his brother. "We've got enough trouble already," he thought and tried not retaliating instead. The only difference was Sam began to consistently get the upper-hand and Dean started to feel he was under constant attack.

Sometimes Sam used rage-fuelled strength to physically get his point across, but usually he just delivered vicious verbal snipes. Gradually the spark of anger left inside Dean flickered and went out, leaving him feeling cold and depressed.

There'd been no need to ask Sam what was bugging him, because Sam was more than ready to share. He had shared; loudly, angrily and all too often. Sam was angry about Stanford, about Jess, about Dad ditching them without a word, about Dean's music, Dean's clothes, the Impala, Dean's food, Dean's voice, Dean drinking, Dean's face, Dean being Dean.

So Dean put on his mask of indifference, hid his hurt feelings from his little brother and got on with day-to-day life just like the good little soldier he was accused of being. "It's just Sammy havin' a bad few days," he told himself. "It'll pass soon and things'll be okay again."

.

Dean stopped believing things would be okay after the incident in 'Jilly's Diner'.

It was a beautiful morning; warm, sunny, blue sky, a nice scenic drive through the Smokey Mountain range ahead of them. They wandered into the diner for breakfast. Dean was feeling cautiously happy as he settled himself into a booth, hoping today would be the day Sam cheered up. He was enjoying the smell of bacon and fresh coffee, appreciating the view of the mountains. His mood brightened further as he saw the curvy waitress crossing the diner.

Dean swivelled his leather-clad shoulders in her direction, his intense gaze attracting her attention. A little cheeky twitch of the eyebrow and a slow grin sealed the deal and drew her across to their booth, much to the annoyance of an earlier arrival.

"What can I get you, sugar?" she drawled, pouting, as she stared hungrily at Dean's loose-limbed sprawl on the booth seat.

This was a game Dean excelled at, one he'd been playing since puberty.

"What's on offer, sweetheart?" he growled, enjoying the flush of pink spreading on her cheeks and the mock widening of her eyes as she pretended to be outraged, while still shamelessly fluttering her lashes.

"Dean!" Sam's voice was shockingly loud and angry to his brother's ears. "Just order breakfast like a normal person! Nobody wants to put up with this display every morning!"

Everyone in the diner turned abruptly to look at them. Dean's grin melted, a flush of embarrassment spreading up his neck and onto his ears. He stared at his brother, then dropped his head, not wanting Sam to see the hurt he knew must be visible in his eyes.

"Umm… just coffee for me," he muttered quietly to the waitress.

The waitress stared, an icy expression crossing her face as she raised an eyebrow at Sam.

.

A pulse of rage throbbed in Sam's temples as he glared at Dean's lowered head; he honestly couldn't understand how he'd put up with that type of behaviour for so long.

"Just cancel that, we're leaving," he snarled, feeling he couldn't bear another moment of the greasy diner smells or the irritation of his brother flirting. All Sam had wanted was a quiet, healthy breakfast. He launched himself out of the booth and towards the diner door.

.

Dean hurried after him, throwing a strained smile of apology at the waitress, who was now regarding him with a pitying expression. He caught up with Sam by the Impala.

"What the fuck, Sam!" he started, but Sam was already moving, grabbing Dean by the front of his jacket with his fist and slamming him against the side of the Impala.

"I've had enough. Enough of this…" He waved his free hand at the staring faces in the diner window. "Enough of you!" He pushed at Dean again, before letting go and storming round to the passenger door.

Dean gulped, a little winded but more shocked than anything. After a moment, painfully aware of the staring faces, he took out his keys with shaking hands and got into the Impala, trying to work out just what he'd done that was so bad.

.

After that Dean started sleeping poorly, lying awake at night wondering what he'd done wrong.

"Maybe it's all my fault," he worried. "I let Sam down, maybe he wouldn't have gone to college if I was a better brother, I let him leave, I fetched him back, got him back into all of this crap… I should've left him with Jess. And it's my fault Dad isn't here, somehow I fucked up so bad he won't even speak to me…"

So Dean went quiet, withdrawing into himself, refusing to be drawn by Sam's increasingly antagonistic remarks. He loved his brother, but right now he was starting to dread seeing him. It was not as though he could get away. Sam was right beside him all the time, sleeping in the same room, sitting beside him in the Impala, reminding him with every huff and scowl and sharp remark that he, Dean, was worthless and irritating.

.

Now

Right now it seemed Sam was angry about their latest salt'n'burn, about Dean being stupid enough to be thrown against a headstone, about having to hunt in general.

Dean just felt bone-tired, so tired he could hardly think. His back hurt from the collision with the headstone earlier that evening, but he wasn't about to mention it to Sam. His brother was angry enough already. He'd finally stopped ranting for a few minutes and there was no way Dean was going to say anything to set him off again.

He shifted in his seat; the pain in his back was getting worse by the minute and all he really wanted to do was pull the Impala over to the side of the road and lie down somewhere, sleep for a week.

A motel sign flashed past and Dean sighed with relief, earning himself a sharp glare as he turned into the parking lot. Sam stormed off to the reception, returning minutes later to grab his bag without uttering a word. Dean trailed after him to the room, careful not to jar his back as he lugged his duffle inside and dropped it on the bed nearest the door.

Sam curled his lip, "Still sleeping by the door, Dean? I can look after myself you know!"

Dean shrugged, flinching when his back thrummed with pain. "You can have whichever bed you want, Sammy."

"It's Sam! Sam! I'm not some five year old!" Sam's face was suffused with anger again and Dean winced inwardly.

"Sorry," he muttered, not wanting another confrontation.

Sam loomed towards him, "Sorry! You're always sorry Dean! But you've got a lot to be sorry about haven't you?" He grabbed a fistful of Dean's jacket, glaring into his face, then suddenly slammed him back against the wall before storming off to the bathroom. "I'm friggin' sick of your sorry!"

Agony rippled up Dean's back, making his ears buzz and his knees fold. Gracelessly he slid down the wall to a sitting position, glad Sam had shut the bathroom door and couldn't see him. He felt too tired and nauseous to get up, so he just dropped his head back against the wall and shut his eyes, waiting for the room to stop tilting. He could feel a damp stickiness spreading slowly across his back. The injury was bleeding again. He didn't want to ask Sam for help, and decided he didn't care anyway; the bleeding would stop, or not.

When Sam came out of the bathroom, Dean forced his eyelids open. He caught a glimpse of Sam's sneer as he threw himself into bed and turned out the light without a word.

After a while Dean pulled himself slowly upright and shuffled to the bathroom to relieve himself, before dropping wearily face-first and fully clothed onto his bed. He wound his fists into the blanket, clung on desperately to stop himself panicking, feeling overwhelmed with the pain in his back and confusion about Sam's behaviour. He wanted to curl into a ball but his back was too sore. In the end he just lay there listening to Sam's even breathing from the other bed, fighting down a big hard lump of hurt inside him and feeling so lonely and lost he just wanted to cry.

.

Continued in chapter two. Poor Dean. And what on earth is wrong with Sam? Where have the puppy eyes gone, and why?

Thank you for taking the time to read. Please review if you have a spare moment!