Sam felt a rush of relief at the fact that Dean was alright, and then a rush of guilt at having fallen apart with his brother here. But it was just as well, he supposed-- this one was bad enough that he probably shouldn't keep it from Dean, not when it might happen to him right in the middle of a fight. He let go of the wall and held onto Dean's jacket with one hand, trying to get his thoughts together.
"I let you get turned," he said, voice coming out hoarse and rough. That wasn't what Dean meant, he knew, but it was the only thing he could really think about. The flashbacks signified impending doom in the form of losing his sanity, but the guilt at realizing what he'd done to his brother was far more immediate. He cleared his throat and straightened up, but raised his free hand to his face and ran it over his forehead before pressing his fingertips against his eyes and the bridge of his nose. "Fuck."