Title: What Brothers Do
Author: ShaedowCat
Beta: Sparrow Lover (gods, I'm horrible...making her beta her own story), Sammy girl at heart, kina24
Characters: Dean, Sam, canon characters (little small amount)
Pairing: None
Rating: PG / K
Genre: Supernatural
Disclaimer: I don't own them. I'll never own them. I wish I owned them...and the car...but I won't. No money made, here. Please don't sue.
Feedback: Lots is required to feed my habit...I mean... -: koff :-
Summary: Dean's take on Asylum
Warning: A bad word...okay, make that a few bad words. And a different take on Asylum.
Notes: A First Review Request Fic for Sparrow Lover...she requested a missing scene for one of the eps, and this was my answer. Sorry it took so long!
As mentioned in the Warning: section, this is a different take on Asylum. It's...I don't know. It's not your usual Asylum fic...just read it, and you'll get it.

I knew something was up the moment the girl, Cat, said he'd gone to the basement. I wasn't quite sure what, but I had an idea: Ellicott. The stupid sonovabitch was still hanging around, determined to screw with more people's heads...I told Cat and that boyfriend of hers to watch out for themselves - and me...christ, getting shot in the head was all I needed - and took off after Sam.

As I walked, I tried to figure it out. What did I know? Ellicott had used his so-called therapies to make the patients' repressed anger more intense; maybe that was what had happened to the cop, and the kids back in the seventies. And if that was the case, then we were in trouble, because my little brother may be all for open emotions when it comes to me, but once the focus is on him he has barriers and walls in place that would make Fort Knox look like a cake-walk. Forget homicidal, Sammy has enough issues to make him go nuclear.

And speaking of homicide...

I emptied the clip of my Colt and stowed the bullets in my jacket pocket. If Sam was possessed or whatever it was Ellicott had done to him, then there was no way I was giving him a loaded pistol...no way, no how. I knew it'd kill Sam if he killed me...and there was no way in hell I was going to let my baby brother kill himself. Besides, I'm kind of fond of being alive...I have my health, good looks, an awesome car with awesome music, and a rewarding career.

The pay sucks, but still, it's rewarding.


Fourteen minutes later I was down in the basement, having nearly broken my neck at least twice to get down there. There was no sign of Sam.

"Sammy?" I called. "Sam, you down here?" I shone the torch around. "Sam? Sam?" I turned around and he was right there.

I swear to god I nearly pumped him full of rock-salt.

"Man! Answer me when I'm calling you!" I snapped. "You all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he answered. I strained my ears, trying to pick up on any changes in his tone, any indications that he was possessed, or affected in any way. He seemed okay...but then again a lot of possessed people did, until they started up on their homicidal rampages.

"You know it wasn't me who called your cell, right?" I pressed, putting the shotgun back into my duffle as I spoke. He nodded.

"Yeah, I know. I think something lured me down here," he replied. I gave a quick nod.

"I think I know who...Dr Ellicott. That's the thing the spirits have been trying to tell us, you haven't seen him, have you?"

"No. How do you know it was him?"

"'Cause, I found his logbook. Apparently he was experimenting on his patients, some awful stuff...makes lobotomies look like a couple aspirin..." I tried not to think about it. Some people were freaking sick.

"But it was the patients who rioted," he said, a little frown of confusion on his face.

"Yeah, they were rioting against Dr Ellicott," I explained. I saw the disbelief on his face and went on. "Dr Feel-Good was working on some sort of like extreme rage therapy; he thought that if he could get his patients to vent their anger, then they'd be cured of it. Instead it only made them worse and worse and angrier and angrier...so I'm thinking what if his spirit is doing the same thing? To the cop, to the kids in the seventies...making them become so angry they become homicidal." I stopped for a moment. Sam didn't look any more convinced than before, but if Ellicott had managed to affect him, then he probably wouldn't. Of course, that could also be his over-analytical brain going a mile a minute, looking for any and all flaws in my theory.

Damn it. How was I supposed to tell?

Just wait for him to pop a cap in my ass or something.

"C'mon," I told him, walking past him and heading down the corridor. "We got to find his bones and torch 'em."

Sam didn't move. "How? The police never found his body."

"Well the logbook said he had some sort of hidden procedure room down here somewhere where he'd work on his patients. So...I mean if I were a patient I'd drag his ass down here and do a little work on him myself."

"I don't know, it sounds kinda..."

"Crazy?" I supplied, noticing the open door on my right. Boiler Room.

"Yeah," he replied.

"Yeah, exactly." I walked into the room. Behind me, I heard footsteps. I tensed for a moment, then relaxed when I realised it was Sam.

And tensed again.

I knew Sam's walk...I'd known it all his life. From those first wobbly baby steps to the awkward, ungainly walk he'd had at twelve (when he'd shot up like a weed and hadn't known what to do with the extra inches) to the relaxed, graceful stride he'd gotten once he'd finally grown into his height, I'd been there for it all...I knew Sam's footsteps, just as well as- if not better than-my own. There was no reason for me to freak out.

Unless he was a different person.


Looks like I had my answer, then.


I was walking through the room, looking for anything glaringly obvious - like, I don't know, a neon sign saying SECRET TORTURE ROOM HERE! - when he came in. He walked over to stand next to me.

"I told you, I looked everywhere. I didn't find a hidden room," he informed me, hands spreading expanisvely to take in the small space, the light from his torch bouncing off the ground, his shotgun pointing at the ground.

"Well, that's why they call it hidden," I replied distractedly. I was kind of nervous...I only had so long before Sam went completely nuts due to what Ellicott had done to him, so I had to find and salt and burn the old bastards bones before the buzzer went off.

I didn't want to think about what would happen if I didn't.

A faint whistling, rustling sound caught my attention, and I glanced at him. "You hear that?" I asked. He shook his head.

"What?" he asked. I turned, trying to figure out where it was coming from, and after a couple of seconds I realised it was coming from the wall beside me.

I crouched at the foot of the wall, waved my hand back and forth in front of it. I could feel cool air brushing against my fingers, and there was a gap between the floor and the wall...maybe inch in height.

Gotcha, I thought grimly. "There's a door here," I announced. I began looking for a way in.

"Dean," Sam said quietly behind me, and I glanced back at him.

Then I noticed the shotgun aimed right at me. And the nosebleed. He wiped it away.

"Step back from the door," he told me.

I got to my feet slowly. Shit. I'd tried to keep from pissing him off - at least not until we'd gotten out of here, anyway - but obviously I hadn't succeeded. Damnit.

Okay. When in doubt, try reason.

"Sam, put the gun down," I said softly, calmly.

"Is that an order?" he demanded, a little smirk on his face. He shifted from side to side, his fingers moving restlessly on the gun. I swallowed.

"No, it's more of a friendly request," I replied, trying to lighten the mood.

What was I, nuts?

"'Cause I'm getting pretty tired of taking your orders," he continued, raising the gun higher, aiming for my chest.

Ah, hell.

"I knew it. Ellicott did something to you, didn't he?" I asked, a little bit of big brother smart-ass finding its way into my voice. He glared at me.

"For once in your life? Just shut your mouth," he growled.

"What're you going to do, Sam?" I responded. "Gun's filled with rock salt. It's not going to kill me."

In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have baited him.


I woke up sprawled on my back on an extremely uncomfortable floor, debris from my flying lesson digging into my back. The sting in my chest from the rock salt didn't kick in for a second, but then it did, and christ, it was hard to breath. It was all I could do to force air into my lungs...every movement of my chest started another wave of pain, and I swore I could feel every shard of rock salt imbedded in my torso. I brought my hands to my chest, trying to...christ, I don't know. Trying to stop the pain, maybe. I let my head thunk back on the ground.

And then Sam was there.

"Sam," I rasped, craning my neck to look around, trying to see if I could end this now. "We've got to burn Ellicott's bones and all this'll be over...and you'll be back to normal."

"I am normal," he replied. "I'm just telling the truth for the first time." He circled around to my side, getting closer. "I mean, why are we even here? 'Cause you're following Dad's orders like a good little soldier? 'Cause you always do what he says without question?" He lost the smirk; his voice got darker. "Are you that desperate for his approval?"

"This isn't you talking Sam..." I muttered, trying to get a handle on the pain so I could just fucking move already.

"That's the difference between you and me," he continued, and then he raised the shotgun to his temple and I stopped breathing. But he was only pointing. "I have a mind of my own - " and the shotgun fell slightly, pointing to me, " - I'm not pathetic, like you."

"So what're you gonna do, huh? You gonna kill me?" I asked. I'd beaten the pain back enough so that - hopefully - I'd be able to move when the time came...except I had to take Sam out of the equation first. I wouldn't be able to do much with my now-homicidal baby brother trying to take me out.

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

Dad. Anger at me for taking on a job instead of going after him. What a perfect introduction...

"Well here," I replied, reaching for my Colt. I pulled it out of the holster, brought it to my chest. "Let me make it easier for you."

Sam was holding the shotgun on me again, covering me, and I felt a teeny scrap of pride at the fact that, even enraged, he was following his training. I held the gun up to him, and a flicker of shock passed over his face.

"Go on...take it," I pressed, holding it up so it bumped against the barrel of the shotgun, easy for him to reach. "Real bullets are gonna work a hell of a lot better'n rock salt." He hesitated. "Take it!" I snapped, and I felt him snatch it from my hand. I collapsed back against the floor with a grunt.

He dropped the shotgun beside me; I heard the clatter, felt the press of it against my leg. He shifted slightly, then leaned over me, aiming the pistol right at my head.

"You hate me that much?" I asked, and I saw that flicker again...shock, surprise, pain, fear...god, I could practically hear his thoughts: God, what am I doing? I'm going to shoot him. Why do I want to? I don't...yes I do...no I don't...yes I do...

"You think you could kill your own brother?" I added, and I saw that flicker again, this time matched by a look I knew was Sam at his maddest...kind of blank, but with fire in his eyes. Oh, he was pissed.

He was going to do it.

"Well then go ahead. Pull the trigger."

He hesitated.

Stop fighting it, Sammy...stop fighting and just freaking SHOOT...

"Do it!"



A look of confusion came over his face.




I grabbed him by the wrist, yanked him down, and slugged him, hitting so hard I knocked him back, away from me. I staggered to my feet, walked over to him; he was crawling over to where he'd left the shotgun. He looked up at me.

"Man, I'm not gonna give you a loaded pistol," I rumbled, then I slugged him.



The force of the punch sent Sam down for the count, and nearly put me down, too. My chest was screaming...perhaps reaching wasn't such a good idea. I stayed where I was for a moment, pulling myself together, pushing away the pain, then I patted Sam on the back.

"Sorry Sammy," I muttered as I pushed myself up. I winced as my chest protested my movements, telling me to sit my ass down for an hour or so, take a couple aspirin, and just sleep it off. But I can't...not yet. Not until this is all over.

I walked around the room, trying to find a space big enought to stuff a body. I pushed aside the curtains, examined the walls...and then I saw the cabinet.

And the hair.

Man, this was not going to be good.

I crouched down in front of it, then gingerly reached out and opened the door. It swung open, and the stench hit me like a slap int the face. I lurched back, my hand coming up as I did so, choking at the smell, wincing again at the pain. I lowered my hand a little, looked at the remains.

"Oh, that's just gross," I muttered, eyeing the body, its once lanky form crushed into the small cabinet.

I began rummaging through my duffle, coming up with the rock salt and lighter fluid I'd packed for just this occasion. I unscrew the capp of the salt and sprinkle it over the corpse.

"Yeah, soak it up," I said to myself, then I set the canister aside and pick up the lighter fluid. I begin to spread the accelerant over the body, trying hard not to retch or throw up.

The gurney came out of nowhere, slamming into me and sending me sprawling. I tried to get up, but then cold hands gripped my face and...

"Don't be afraid. I'm going to help you. Make you all better."

Mom dying. Fire. Heat.

All I could see was green, grey and blue.

Sickly green, crazy-determined eyes.
Grey, ageing, rotting flesh, cool and clammy against my face.
Blue sparks of electricity, dancing across my skin, coming from the bastard's hands.

Sam leaving. Rain. Cold.

I fumbled in my duffle...I knew my lighter was in there somewhere...just focus on that...the sucker was salted and covered in lighter fluid, I just had to light him up...

Dad leaving. Pain. Tears.

There. I gripped the lighter tightly, flicked it on, and threw it in the direction of the cabinet. I heard the sounds of a fire ctaching, flaring, burning, and the moment the crazy bastard's grip weakened I was out of there, scrambling out of the way, back until I hit Sam's legs, huddling away from Ellicott. I watched as he straightened, held his hands up in front of him, watching as his spirit solidified, turning to ash, before falling forward, crashing to the ground, fragmenting.

It was over.


Behind me, Sam stirs. I glance over and see him raise himself up on his hands. He stretches his jaw out, and then his eyes meet mine.

"You're not going to try to kill me. are you?" I ask.

"No," he replies immediately, a little tightly, but considering how hard I hit him in the jaw, that's to be expected...it's hard to talk when it feels like someone took a baseball bat to your jaw.

"Good," I say. "'Cause that would be awkward."


We make the trek to the corridor where we left Cat and Gavin in silence. All I can do is concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other - along with the arduous task of breathing - and Sam...well, knowing my Sammy he's bottling everything up, stewing over it all and then storing it away to think about later.

We finally end up at the entrance of the South Wing. Cat and Gavin are waiting anxiously, shotgun in hand...this time, however, Cat doesn't attempt to take my head off, for which I am immensely grateful. The door works when Cat tries it, and he all hustle our asses out of there.

Before they leave, Cat stops, turns to us.

"Thanks, guys," she says, gratitude evident in his voice.

"Yeah, thanks," Gavin echoes.

"No more haunted asylums, okay?" I tell them, and they both nod before heading off to their car.

I've just rounded to the driver's side when Sam speaks up.

"Hey Dean? I'm sorry, man, I...I said some awful things back there"

"You remember all that?" I ask. I'm a little surprised - possession victims don't usually remember what happens when they're possessed - and then I remember: Sam wasn't actually possessed. Ellicott had just ramped up his frustration to a homicidal rage.

Details details...

"Yeah," Sam continues. "It's like...I couldn't control it, but I didn't mean it...any of it."

"You didn't, huh?"

"No of course not," he says, regret tinging his voice. I nod a little...I'm not really satisfied with that - he meant at least some of it - but I'm willing to let it slide. Besides, I'm tired. He frowns slightly. "Do we need to talk about this?" he asks, and I can hear...what is that? Concern? Fear? Reluctance? Little brother, I can match you on those three things right now, and raise you Annoyance, Injury, and Exhaustion.

"No. No, I'm not really in a sharing, caring kind of mood," I tell him. The moment those words are out of my mouth, I wonder if they were the right words to use. "I just want to get some sleep," I add, trying to take the abruptness out of it...I don't know if I succeeded, though, if the look on his face is anything to judge by.

There's silence as I drive back to the motel...I want to do something, break it, break the tension, but I don't know how. I guess Sam doesn't, either. In any case, I'm not sure if it should be broken...maybe we just need some times to lick our wounds...or in my case, try not to think about them, 'cause damn, rock salt-inflicted wounds hurt like a bitch. Not to mention the almost-hole in my head...man, am I glad I emptied the clip.

To an outsider, I suppose it would seem like the ultimate betrayal: one brother shooting the other, intending to kill him, thwarted only by the fact that there were no bullets in the gun.

What a joke.

I'm sorry, it is. This isn't the movies...this isn't a drama on TV. This is real life. In real life, if you're possessed, you're possessed. There is no "because you're my brother/sister/father/mother/lover I'm gonna

fight this and wow I'll win because of the power of love/loyalty"...if that was the case, then that cop never would have shot his wife, because no matter how pissed he was? He still loved her. He still cared about her. And if that had meant squat to a spirit, then none of this would've happened. But it did. Besides, I handed Sam the gun.

And the things he said? I didn't take them personally. Well, not completely. Yeah, he's been bitching about that stuff for nearly six months now - taking on jobs instead of looking for Dad, - but that's usually Sam being bitchy. He's just angry, and scared, and wanting revenge...same as me. And sometimes the filter between his brain and his mouth doesn't catch everything...same as me.

The only two things that really sting are the rock salt - as I mentioned before: hurts like a bitch - and...and what Sam said about me being the good little soldier. Following Dad's orders all the time. Being desperate for his approval. God, if he only knew...not following nearly cost me everything...but he doesn't know the whole story. And I'm not going to tell him, not if I can help it. But still...

It hurt. It does hurt. It will hurt.

But I forgive him for it.

That's what brothers do.

But I swear to god, if he's damaged my body - marred its handsomeness - then all bets are off.

HOMG, I dids it! Praise Jebus! Hallelujah! Sparrow Lover, I hope you like it...your other fic will be up soon! Promise!

As stated above, feedback is greatly appreciated. I love it loads...please lots for me! I accept and and all feedback...but if you're going to flame, please think twice before doing so...if it's a general nitpick and not just my writing, please post it in a forum.

That is all...

luv ShaedowCat xox : )