PRELIMINARIES

Remember when I said 30STM is not widely known in Spain? Well, the lines to access the stadium may have proven me wrong. Let’s say they’re not really mainstream, but they have a legion of loyal believers. Actually, I was almost out of place there, because I CONFESS I didn’t know their songs my heart, I was starting to be familiar with the most famous of them but like Hell would I recognize them by title and so on. However, in a strange way it was cool to be the “less geeky” person present. I can tell you that doesn’t happen very often.

It took an hour for us to enter San Jordi Stadium, almost another hour for the guest band to come out to the stage, but we managed to be fairly close to them. Thank God, because, flashing news, I’M SHORT. The supporting band was the Portuguese band More Than a Thousand, and they totally rocked. Much more hard-rock than 30STM, although less dark-metal in concert than they are in their Myspace. They got us jumping, dancing and screaming like crazy. The lead singer sure had power when he roared into the mic.

GREAT JOB, FOR MORE THAN A THOUSAND!

THE CONCERT

Another hour passed between the supporting band and 30STM and people was starting to get really excited. Unfortunately, excitement made the snooty group by our side chain-smoke for half an hour, ignoring the general glaring taking place pointedly around them.  By then we were already pressed into each other as canned sardines and we knew that the second something happened on the stage, we would pushed forward like a wave.

We did, but of course, we didn’t care. You can’t be bothered by much when Jared comes out wearing this trench coat (hell yeah, I learnt that word reading about Castiel :P) and sun glasses looking just as eccentric as he is :D. We screamed and jumped and mindlessly cheered any word he said.

You know, a concert.

He shed the coat and the glasses after a song or two. Of course, he had to be melting under those, the poor baby. He was wearing a loose sleeveless shirt with something written on it, although I didn’t get to read it clearly. Oh, for the record, his hair was blue.

I could just fill this entry with videos available all over youtube, but I’ll try to restrain myself. Let’s say that what I liked the most was the fact that they really GIVE a concert. I mean, they don’t sing the songs and that’s it, but adapt them to give a real concert -like performance. Jared talked to the audience, cheered us up, commanded up to jump and scream and go (and I quote) “fucking crazy” all the time. He would literally stop playing to make us sing the lyrics for him (which I, ahem, didn’t… since I kinda didn’t know them) to then resume the song in an even more explosive way.

Kudos for the rest of the band ;) They kept themselves in the background, but they make it all possible!

Well, so Jared asked us repeatedly to get closer, c’mon, closer… By the second time we were already about to die crushed, but still he pressed. By the fifth time people in the first row were literally waving “no way” with his fingers and shaking their heads no, we appreciate our lives, thank you very much. But fans are fans, right? He did manage to squeeze a few feet from us every time (as I said, I got to be quite close). And he friggin’ loved it, reaching out to the audience and bashing in the excitement. One thing is true, after managing to crush us more (pun intended) and then prompt us to jump, you realize it’s easier to obey when there’s no way you’ll lose your balance, being as you are sandwiched other human beings who act as virtual walls. The trick is just not bothering about what or who you step on on your way down. I actually stepped over this girl behind me and turned to apologize, but she grinned a “don’t wooooorry” without losing the sparkle of his eye. She was entranced. That was the magic.

Nobody stepped on me, though. That may have tested the power of the magic :P

Oh, the way Jared dances on stage? Adorable. He hops and jumps and spins like a spinning top. He was fun and attentive to the feedback he got from us, at least from the first rows, naturally. There was this moment in between songs where he walked to one corner of the stage and tsked to a group, saying “Some people are not doing what they’re supposed to do. I don’t see you going crazy”. We had him playing with these giant red balloons going around the stadium and congratulating himself for his ability, then teasing us with a “I might take your Soccer World Cup from you”.

Ha.

Oh, and he kept referring to Spanish as Castilian, which is the way we actually refer to it in Catalunya, so he had made his homework!

Structurally, they played several songs in a first part. Then he sat “alone” with the guitar in the middle and played several songs more in acoustic. He used to ask the audience what song we wanted. Since people screamed all kind of things, he could basically sing whatever he had in mind and in their schedule ;)

He let us sing From Yesterday, but it was hilarious how when people got to the verses “But he doesn’t wanna read the message / he doesn’t wanna read the message / he doesn’t wanna read the message here” (aka, the fastest paced part), the singing became rather mumbling. Jared stopped and awwwed a “That was sad… Let’s try again. Maybe you should sing in Spanish. Or Castilian, right?”

Ha ha.

Another funny moment was when someone threw some panties at him. A classic. There was something written on them, but I can’t remember.

J: What’s this? Ohh, you naughty naughty people. Who was it? They sure aren’t mine? What am I supposed to do with these? They are two big. Either they belong to a girl with something to hide or a guy who isn’t telling us everything…

He ended up wrapping them around the head of the camera guy on stage.

Also, while he was alone on the stage, some group in the left side screamed particularly loud. So he addressed them:

J: What’s up there? What are you screaming about now? What do you want? [obviously “YOUUUU!” could be heard] Oh, but I can only give you my music and my lyrics…

The Kill was the last song he sang “acoustically” and once more he let us sing, made the central part longer and encouraged us to yell more and more, until we were joined by the whole band again to sing the last chorus. Catalan flag included. In short: apotheosis

By iralo07

Again, the video is note mine. I was like… by the other side of the stage and a little bit further back. Sorry about the quality, but I think it’s a pretty good video all things considered. I didn’t even bring my camera; I admit I was THAT lazy. I knew I was going to be busy jumping!

They played all together some more, and then, to finalize, they invited More of a Thousand back to the stage and started picking people of the audience to climb to the stage with them. The last song they played was Kings and Queens, and it was very emotional with two dozens of people dancing on stage to the song. Ok, I need a video on that. Borrowed from youtube, as usual. It’s absolutely chaotic, but you’ll get the feeling. And it includes his final speech to us :D.

By cristinalaro

And this is it, folks. As I promised, shorter than SPN ;)

Thanks for reading!

Back to Part 1
Back to Masterpost

This entry is not beta-tested, so excuse the language mistakes :D

Okay. Yes, yes, I like to take my sweet time to review stuff. I think my average is managing to post a month after the event at hand. So here I am, the event being…

30 Seconds to Mars in Barcelona!

18 December 2010

 Or, as apparently a real fan would say: 30STM ^_^

First of all, to give you guys the appropriate context as I found myself doing several times prior and after the concert:

·         30STM is a (quoting Wikipedia) hard rock, emo, neo-progressive, progressive metal, alternative metal and post-grunge. That is, nobody has the slightest idea about how to classify it.

• Jared Leto is the lead singer.
• Jared Leto… the actor U⌐_⌐
• Geez, Hephestion in Alexander, anyone? Hmmm, Requiem of a Dream? Mr. Nobody?
• This one :P

• Yes, he sings. Go figure. And he’s pretty crazy too, if you check out the music videos :D

Gotta give my friends some credit. 30STM is not very known in Spain. Actually, I admit I must have discovered the band (not Jared, I knew him, of course) about a year ago or so, when I stumbled upon a LJ page (I don’t remember if it was you, Gaelic, may have been, girl ;)) with From Yesterday in the “Current music” field.

So I checked it out. I thought it was interesting, but not exactly my style. Too… glam-ish, lacking a better way to put it. I still got the album, don’t get me wrong, I liked them. Just didn’t go too much into it at the time.

My rediscovery came when a few months ago I found an acoustic version of The Kill (see my blog, in Spanish, though.), in my quest for inspiration to keep trying to play guitar. Without the natural artifice and paraphernalia of the album version, I realized for real what a BEAUTIFUL voice this guy has. The Kill is a great song, definitely. It’s become my favorite 30STM song since then and it got me to try more of their stuff.

I was just in the middle of this process of becoming a fan when… Ta daaa!! I found out they were playing in Barcelona that week!

Fate is fate is fate.

Got the ticket, couldn’t find anyone to join me and ended up imposing my presence to this lovely crowd. Diana, thanks! And Norma and Bea, you’re awesome, girls. It was really nice to meet you ;)

Dust to Dust

It always starts when his body begins to relax. When he breathes in, tired and oddly satisfied, and exhales a quiet, exhilarated sigh. Secretly relishing the fact that for a few moments, his life is complete; and, for the first time in too long, the two halves of his heart aren't miles and years apart.

That's then it starts, always when his guard is down. The first drop feels warm on his forehead and he frowns, but either he's forgotten or he's trying to fool himself, because it's not until the third or fourth drop that his pulse starts to race. Deep down he knows what he'll find when he finally dares to open his eyes.

"Jess, no!" He screams.

Every time he sees it, the vision of Jess pinned to the ceiling stabs him in the chest. She looks gorgeous in her ethereal white gown, face framed by her golden locks. But her pale-blue skin makes him shiver. Her lips are slightly parted, her eyes glassy.

She already looks dead.

"Why, Sam?" Her voice echoes down to him.

The question burns him before the fire starts. He tries to react, to reach for her and keep the blood from escaping her bleeding belly with his own hands. However, Sam's body betrays him. Years and years of training against evil are converted into uselessness and all he can do is cry out like a frozen, pathetic civilian, as his girlfriend dies in front of him.

His family would be very disappointed.

The flames explode over his head and engulf Jess. And Sam screams and screams and screams until the fire swallows him too and tears the flesh out of his lungs.

"Sam!"

Sam wakes up with a jolt and it takes a few seconds for him to adjust his senses to the innocuous landscape around him, the music playing in the background and the smell of the worn leather upholstery. Dean is by his side, behind the wheel of the Impala, and is resting a solid, soothing hand over Sam's heaving chest.

"You alright, man?" Dean asks worriedly.

Sam swallows hard and feels that his throat is a little too tight. He's afraid he may have been screaming in his sleep like a terrified child. Since he doesn't trust his voice to come out without breaking, he just nods. Dean studies him for a few seconds longer, his silence clearly disbelieving, while Sam tries to even out his breath and fantasizes about disappearing into the seat.

"What were you dreaming about?" Dean tries, forcing a conversational tone.

Sam finds himself clenching his jaw and shaking his head, even if there's a part of him that yearns to accept the implicit offer to be listened to. Oddly enough, it's his Winchester side that wins, even after he has denied it for four years. Dean's sigh is barely audible and his hand over Sam's chest lifts slightly. Sam bits his lip to keep it from trembling. It's exhausting keeping up a strong front all the time, simultaneously pushing Dean away and feeling naked without him. Luckily Dean doesn't withdraw his hand right away, but waits until he's sure that his little brother has a grip on himself. Then Dean slides his hand to Sam's shoulder and gives it a parting squeeze. Knowing Dean, it must be hard for him to be so patient with Sam, and his younger brother is thankful for it. Right now, it's enough.

He's been having the same nightmare for weeks now, but today it's the first time his worst fear has become a real memory haunting him in his dreams.

At first, Sam doesn't just see her in his dreams, but everywhere he looks. He sees Jess in the lines at the fast-food restaurants, in the aisles of the supermarkets and sitting at the counter in a bar. Sometimes, she's right there when Sam turns, or he finds her staring back at him when he looks in the mirror.

Sam can't really hide his nightmares from Dean, because sharing a room with someone makes some things too obvious. The fact that they have shared space for the most part their lives allows very few things to go unnoticed. Still, he doesn't tell his big brother about the visions of Jess, though he's not sure why. Sam's afraid that Dean will think his brother is going crazy or, worse, that grief has nothing to do with it at all. Maybe Jess is haunting him, like a spirit bound to her murderer. Maybe Sam has no right to wish for her to come back and is even less entitled to wish her away forever.

Dean knows something is wrong, but he gives Sam space. He pretends not to notice that Sam sometimes startles for no apparent reason, or that his eyes tear up out of the blue. In addition, Dean doesn't complain when Sam spends hours alone in the Impala, or just outside of their motel room, because he feels like he's suffocating when he's inside. Dean doesn't say anything either when Sam suddenly acts the opposite and becomes needy and clings to Dean's side like a shadow.

That night was one of those nights when staying alone in the motel room while Dean hustles pool felt too depressing for Sam. He sits alone at the bar counter, with his brother close enough so that Sam can hear him bragging about shot after shot. Sam has already downed a couple of beers, maybe three. Judging by the number of bottles on the table, it's quite possibly four. But Sam isn't as much of a lightweight as Dean seems to think he is. He's not drunk, just buzzed. Numb enough for the lines of reality to pleasantly blur.

And that's when Sam sees her, sitting on a stool at the end of the counter. Her back is to him, but her golden hair shines like a beacon in the night. Sam feels his throat go dry and the floor wavers slightly under his feet. He will never get used to the sensation of time stopping, or the cold in the pit of his stomach. Frozen, he watches her from afar, until a guy approaches her and puts an arm around her shoulders. Sam can't see her face, but his mind conjures up tension in her graceful frame, and that she is backing away a little. The guy whispers something in her ear; she nods, finishes her beer and stands. Together, they exit the bar, holding hands. And it's like the world slows down and fluctuates on its axis.

Before he has time to realize what he's doing, Sam is following the couple outside and is hearing himself screaming her name over the hammering rush of blood in his ears. Somehow, he has lunged at the guy, who has shoved Sam and is yelling at him. He must be forty pounds heavier than Sam, but the young hunter knows how to tilt that balance in his favor, and for a second that certainty is as overwhelming as it is elating.

Next thing Sam knows, he's being held back and forced to back away from the imminent fight. Whoever is holding him doesn't let go, no matter how hard Sam struggles. The tight grip settles the white noise in his brain and the voices around Sam begin to clear up.

"He's a lunatic! He just attacked me!" The man's indignant voice growls.

"Get out of here." Dean retorts, his voice cold and lethally calm.

"Freak should be locked away! He's lucky I didn't smash his face-" The stranger persists, enraged.

"I said hit the road bastard!" Dean interrupts sharply, his voice becoming more threatening.

And Jess is standing right there and too far away at the same time, her face crumpling.

"Let me go!" Sam yells desperately. "Dean, let me go. Get off me!"

His brother doesn't, not matter how hard Sam twists in his arms. The guy from the bar just glares at Sam with contempt, itching to reignite the fight.

"Jess!" Sam roars.

"That's not her, Sammy." Dean assures him firmly, his hands on Sam's shoulders, gently forcing Sam to take a step back.

"Fucking retard…" The man growls, clenching his fists. "If I ever see you again around my-"

"What part of go the fuck away are you not getting, asshole?" Dean yells back fiercely. "Get in your goddamn car and get the fuck out of here or I will smash your face in, are we clear?"

The man hesitates, as if considering the older Winchester's threat, but the danger contained in it has also reached him loud and clear. Fortunately, he's not stupid: swearing under his breath, he turns around, grabs the shocked blonde and drags her stumbling towards his car.

"No… NO!" Sam begs, desperately fighting with all his might against the impenetrable wall Dean has become.

He's throwing punches blindly now, but instead of letting go, Dean pushes Sam against the wall and pins him with his own body weight. Sam is overwhelmed with the sensation of defenselessness. Like he is back at Stanford and witnessing Jess burn all over again.

"Let me go." Sam pleads, writhing like a wild, wounded animal. "Fuck, let me go."

He hears the car start, and the couple drives away.

"Dean…" Sam whimpers brokenly.

"Easy, kiddo. I'll let you go." Dean soothes him. "Inna minute, Sammy. I promise."

"No…" Sam pleads, stretching his neck to follow the car with his eyes. "Please…"

The road wavers, as Sam's eyes are blurred with tears, but the car has already disappeared from sight and it takes Sam's strength with it. Suddenly Dean's grip is all that is keeping Sam from falling to the ground. Irrationally, Sam fears Dean will keep his promise and release him, so he grips his brother's leather jacket tightly as he struggles to calm down.

"You're okay." Dean murmurs soothingly, as he adjusts his position, not so much restraining as propping Sam up as his knees buckle. "It's okay now. Just take it easy."

And Sam tries, he really does, but suddenly he feels the sudden buzz of the alcohol rushing through him. And all he can manage to do is drop his head on his brother's shoulder and try to anchor himself twisting his hand tighter in Dean's jacket. If he could, Sam would scream. But the buried tears balloon inside his throat and his chest is on fire, only quiet whimpers escaping him every time he exhales. Dean puffs out a breath and pulls his little brother a few inches away from the wall to throw an arm around his back.

"Breathe, dude. I got you, okay? Just breathe." Dean presses, rocking Sam a little.

Despite his brother's soothing tone of voice, as Sam calms down, he notices Dean's pulse is racing against his cheek. Sam scared him. In all fairness, Sam scared himself a little too. He would like to blame the alcohol or the lack of sleep. Perhaps blame it on the fact that he has only allowed himself to grieve the woman he loved for a few seconds at a time, when exhaustion has made his walls crumble and his guard is temporarily destroyed. Dean says Sam is like John, but John would never have fallen apart outside a seedy bar on the side of the road. John… his dad had had what it took to keep going, no matter what.

"Why can't I…?" Sam chokes, "What… what's wrong with me?"

Dean stills for a beat and Sam holds his breath, until he feels Dean's palm resting warmly on the nape of his neck and his big brother's words sound sure and steady close to his ear.

"Nothing's wrong with you, you hear me?" Dean's voice is adamant. Then he pulls away a few inches to look Sam in the eye. "Nothing's wrong with you kiddo." He presses, softer now, but just as frankly. "But you need to sleep, Sam".

Sam nods. At that moment, he is ready to do anything that Dean tells him to. Sleep sounds good. In fact, if his brother stays where he is, Sam would gladly close his eyes and sink into oblivion right there.

Sam is alone in the morgue of the hospital, watching dazedly as paramedics prepare the body of his father for his family to take. Bobby waits outside, with a fake ID from a funeral home, to take John until his sons are ready to pay him their last respects.

Dean is back in his room, drugged to the gills after he almost passed out in Sam's arms in front of an army of doctors. He had just come out of a coma and, according to the well-intentioned practitioners, he shouldn't be moving around. They were probably right, but Sam couldn't have helped running to him when he found their dad on the floor and the doctors weren't able to find a pulse. Obviously, nothing and no one would have kept Dean Winchester from jumping out of bed and going to his hero.

Time of death: 10:41

Dean hadn't said a word since, not even uttered a protest when he was led back to bed and sedated. Sam had followed the doctors, not really knowing what else to do. He didn't want to let Dean out of his sight and really, the only natural place he could picture himself, at that moment, was by his brother's side. So Sam sat close to Dean's bed and hid with him from the world. Dean's expression had relaxed when the sedatives started to kick in, and the feverish shine in his eyes had faded. In the last moment, he had searched Sam's eyes, as he always did whenever he was sick or scared. Their eyes had locked for a few, long seconds in a pool of silence full of emotions but devoid of words, until Dean's closed and his breathing had evened out.

"Mr. McGillicuddy?"

A nurse's voice brings Sam back to the present and the young Winchester automatically accepts the blue plastic bag handed to him.

"These are your father's clothes. His wallet is inside." He informs him. "He also had this."

Sam reaches out again and the nurse drops his father's dog tags in his open palm. John had never taken them off, not since Sam could remember, and the bite of the cold metal on his skin makes Sam shiver. Still, he sets his jaw and fists his hand around the tags. The nurse mumbles something Sam doesn't get and then leaves: possibly going to find Bobby. Sam stays where he is and looks through the windowpane into the room where John's body rests inside a black body bag. He stares at it for a long while, rubbing the tags between his fingers. When he realizes he's doing it, he plops down on a hard, uncomfortable plastic chair with a sigh.

Taking out his wallet, he chooses the most hidden pocket to keep the tags. When he opens it, his fingers graze an old picture of Jess he's kept all this time: it's the last one he has. Sam takes a deep breath and caresses the picture tenderly. It has been a long time since the last time he looked at it. After the first few terrible weeks following Jess' death, he decided he would cut all the ties with his life at Stanford and would never return. And

Jess had never been just Jess, but also the reflection of that other life where good people live their placid, normal lives and nothings bumps in the dark. Jess was a blindfold, a mirage. Because darkness still swallows up good people and warriors fall, even if Sam wants to look the other way. His father had been one of these warriors as is his brother, lying broken two floors above.

Suddenly, that other life makes little sense to him.

Sam puts the dog tags in the wallet just before the nurse comes back in, with Bobby at his heels. The two hunters don't look each other in the eye, but John's old friend brushes Sam's shoulder as he passes next to him.

"Go be with Dean. I'll handle this." Bobby orders gruffly.

Sam nods and obeys. When he stands up, he leaves Jessica's picture on the chair.

Awake in bed, Sam can't stop thinking of Dean's incredible story about the world of the Djinn. After spending the previous night looking for Dean, exhaustion is starting to weigh him down, like a solid burden resting on his head and shoulders. He still punishes himself, imagining what he would have done in Dean's shoes. If he had had everything he wanted: Jess and his family at the same time, a normal life without fear or blood or fire… would he have had the strength to come back?

The question burns in his gut like acid and leaves a bitter taste in the back of his throat. Stanford is the answer to how far he tried to escape once, even though he had known that there were lives at stake.

Dean turns in his bed, just as awake as Sam is, and the younger curses himself silently. His brother must be totally wiped out and the only reason he isn't sleeping is knowing that Sam's upset. In the end, Sam speaks up, because it seems stupid for the two of them to keep on looking at the ceiling.

"Dean?" Sam begins, hesitantly.

"Yeah?" Dean's sleep-laden voice comes back.

Sam chews on his bottom lip nervously. He doesn't know how to ask his question without sounding insensitive or anxious.

"What, Sam?" Dean pushes. He sounds so tired it makes Sam's muscles ache.

"I… I mean, the other Sam…" Sam stutters, apprehensively. "Did he tell you how he proposed to Jess?"

Dean just keeps silent at first.

"It's just…" Sam hesitates. "I never… I never got to decide how to ask her and… I was wondering if maybe…"

This is even more stupid than looking at the ceiling, Sam curses to himself, and he closes his eyes in shame. He shouldn't be thinking about such things anymore.

"No." Dean answers softly. "I'm sorry, but we didn't talk about that."

Sam should leave it at that, but somehow he can't. It's been months, years since the last time he thought about her and now Dean has seen her. He has really seen her and the worst part is that Sam is jealous of him and hungry for their shared images, as much as he knows that Dean was dying in the meantime.

"And…and at the dinner, with Mom, how..? How was her hair?" Sam asks, hating how his voice hitches.

"Her hair?" Dean asks, surprise leaking into his tone.

"Yes, she…" Sam frowns in the dim light, scared of how the little details are getting harder to unbury from his memory. "Jess used to straighten her hair on special occasions. I liked it curly, but she said it was more elegant straight. So maybe for the dinner she… I don't know, maybe her hair was straight?"

Sam breathes in and bites his tongue, because if he keeps on talking, he feels that he will start crying.

"I didn't know." Dean whispers after a second.

Sam swallows hard.

"It was curly, Sam."

Sam lets out a weak laugh at the muted apology he senses underlying his brother's words. Of course it was; it makes total sense. The alternate reality had been created from Dean's memories and he had only seen Jess with curly hair. It wasn't logical to expect otherwise.

It wasn't her, Sam.

"Get some sleep." Dean tells him.

"I'm sorry." Sam mumbles, surprised to hear tears in his voice.

"Sammy, sleep." Dean orders, his voice gentle but firm. "Tomorrow we get back on the road."

Dean died three months ago. And three months ago, Sam's spirit shattered and the hunter became a specter. Since then, he's done nothing but stumble his way through a series of furious, suicidal missions. He doesn't even think too hard about what Ruby is doing to his soul, as he doesn't believe there's going to be anything left or worth saving of him when he is done. Right now, she's all he needs. Ruby is his support and his power source. The noises she makes, the way she undulates like a cat in heat under him, tears a heady sensation from his nerve endings, as intoxicating as her blood.

Maybe Ruby is just a means to an end, but she's his means. She's the only solid thing he's got. He only feels something when he curls around her under the sheets: something dark and primal and real. So he takes her hard, over and over again, and she laughs and moans and never says no. When Sam thinks he's got nothing left inside, she knows how to squeeze him even more. With Ruby, there are no boundaries. That's why he needs her, because to do what he needs to do, he can't have limitations.

And all of a sudden Jess is in the room, standing at the foot of the bed, watching him sadly and accusingly. Sam sits up with a jolt but one blink and she's gone.

"Sam?"

He pushes Ruby away roughly. His heart is racing and he feels like throwing up. He barely recognizes his own voice when he yells at her and kicks her out. When he's finally alone, his lungs close up and he empties his stomach. He feels dirty and dead, like the corpses in the graves they used to dig up. And as much as he knows that the illusion wasn't really Jess and that he owes her nothing now, after downing a bottle and a half of tequila he swears not to see Ruby ever again.

This time he keeps his promise for over two weeks.

He should have seen it coming when Hendriksen comes back to torture him. Seeing Meg feels even weirder, because this time it's not the demon talking but the girl he thought he'd met in a deserted road close to Burkitsville. They were both innocents and they both died because they crossed paths with the Winchester curse. But Sam is an experienced hunter and neither compassion nor guilt keeps him from shooting them out of his way. After all, what's dead should stay dead.

However, time stops when she appears. Her blue eyes have a steely tint in the semi-darkness of the hall and her blond waves of hair brush her shoulders as she walks. When their eyes meet, her lips twist in an angry grimace.

"How could you, Sam?" Her voice is clear, her tone sharp. It's Jess, upset because Sam has let her down, because he has forgotten or kept something from her. It's Jess hurt, demanding answers.

No, it's not Jess. It's not Jess.

Sam freezes when she comes closer, unable to react. His heart stops, his lungs fail, and even his thoughts seem to escape him. The only thing he can do is look at her. Just look at her as he holds his breath. And then he hears a shot and Jess vanishes with a shriek that shatters his soul into pieces.

"Sam!"

Sam recognizes his brother's frenzied call somewhere deep in his mind, but it's like he's underwater. Everything is slow, muted and incomprehensible. Before Sam realizes fully what's happening, Dean is in front of him, shaking him.

"Hey, hey! Snap out of it!" Dean demands, fear sharpening his voice into a snarl.

Sam blinks, dazed. His ears are ringing and Jess' face, her voice –Jesus, he had forgotten her voice!- engulfs him so completely that all he can do is drown in the memory of her.

"Sam! Sammy, look at me" Dean demands, cradling Sam's face with his hands and forcing his brother to meet his eyes. The younger shivers as the mixture of urgency and compassion in his brother's hazel depths pull him out of his shock. "You've gotta react now, okay?"

Next time Sam breathes in, oxygen explodes in his ears and finally Dean's words sink in. All the emotions contained there, the I'm sorry, the I know, the Not now resonate with him and he knows that if he breaks now, he will not only be risking himself, but his brother too. Dean is not going anywhere. That certainty gives him the strength to clench his teeth and tighten his grip on the shotgun. Dean nods and pats Sam's arm encouragingly.

Yet Dean doesn't leave his side. Jess comes back over and over, and although Sam feels ready to repel her, his brother always shoots first.

In the end, when it's all over, the ensuing calm is soaked in exhaustion on all levels. The revelation that the Apocalypse is coming should have been horrifying enough, but it's the shame of having frozen in the middle of the fight that does Sam in. He goes out of the house feeling like a lifeless and transparent ghost in which a single puff of wind could blow away.

Dean soon follows his brother to the Impala, where Sam has sought shelter. It's not until the older opens the driver's door that Sam realizes how habit has brought him to sit behind the wheel, and he hates himself for it. Still, Dean stops Sam's automatic attempt to move to the passenger's side with a hand to Sam's shoulder. The simple gesture of comfort still feels awkward and the lost familiarity bewilders him, because he shouldn't need it. He certainly doesn't deserve it. That doesn't keep Sam's eyes from moistening, even as he tells himself it shouldn't be that easy to bring him so close to tears. A hunter can't let shit get to him and Sam has become an excellent hunter in the last few months. There's been no time to cry or feel self-pity. There's been no time to freeze like a freaking deer in the headlights. What the fuck is wrong with him? Somebody could have died! Dean should be furious with him. And yet…

"You did good, Sam." Dean sounds drained, but there is an underlying certainty in his words.

Sam bits his lip and shakes his head.

"The hell I did." Sam growls.

"I mean it." Dean assures him solemnly. "I'm proud of you."

They're silent for the longest of whiles, shoulder to shoulder. It's Dean's way of giving Sam permission to let go, because it's alright now. It's over. The problem is, Sam doesn't know how to start. The knot that has settled in the pit of his stomach is part of him now, and Sam has forgotten how to pull the threads to start unraveling it.

Then Dean passes over his flask and Sam accepts the offering.

As whiskey burns his throat and sloshes warmly in his stomach, Sam bends forward and buries his face in his arms. Dean's hand rests on his back and the affection in his touch is like a balm that breaks through the shock and melts Sam's armor. Sam's hand is shaking as he brings the flask to his lips and drinks until it's empty.

The laugh that escapes Sam's throat when Dean pulls the rest of the bottle out of his jacket is tinged of nostalgia.

The Impala's purr and the powerful engine's vibration is Sam's most accurate definition of home. Dean drives easy and relaxed, his rock music plays low in the background and the road unrolls ahead of them: always ahead. There's still tension in the air, but considering that Dean has just taken him back not two hours ago, Sam's not looking the proverbial horse in the mouth.

"You know?" Sam says distractedly. "It was Jess. Who came to me in my sleep, it was Jess."

Dean tosses him a sideways glance and purses his lips. Sam looks down, unsure of why he has opened his mouth. The truth is that after everything they've gone through, the fact that Jess has appeared in his dreams seems completely meaningless. However, after Lucifer's visit, Sam is scared and the only thing keeping him together is Dean's belief that together they can beat anything.

"No. No, it wasn't." The older replies, his tone unwavering.

Sam grimaces and shrugs a little.

"I know." He murmurs.

Dean's eyes linger on Sam's profile a few seconds before returning to the road.

"She looked so beautiful… Her hair was shorter, like the day we met." Sam rambles. "She was so close. I could almost touch her."

"Sammy…" Dean interjects.

"It's funny." Sam closes his eyes and leans his head back against the headrest. "I've been dreaming of her death and imagining her ghost for so long now that I… I don't…" Sam swallows and opens his eyes a little. "I almost don't remember who she really was anymore. What it felt like to walk with her, what her favorite food was or whether we went to the movies a lot. Those kinds of things."

Dean breathes in and simply nods as he listens.

"And I've realized…" Sam continues laboriously. "That I spent fewer years with her alive than with her ghost. Sometimes… sometimes it's like the woman she was never existed."

Dean wets his lips and gives Sam a sorrowful look. Then he pays attention to the road again and is quiet for a minute.

"Jess existed." He says finally. "She liked taking walks at night and Chinese food. And when you went to the movies, she made fun of you because you liked caramel popcorn."

Sam turns his head towards Dean, his eyes shiny.

"How do you know all that?" He asks in a shaking voice.

"At first you talked about her a lot. You didn't realize you were doing it, but you talked about her all the time."

"And you… remember?" Sam whispers.

Dean shrugs with a hint of embarrassment.

"It seemed like it mattered." He replies, almost under his breath.

The renewed wave of grief hits Sam hard, and brings tears to his eyes and crushes his chest. Because that was what it all came down to. It is the key to his tragedy.

"But why can't I? Why do I keep forgetting what matters?" Sam voices his question miserably.

Dean sighs quietly and holds his brother's devastated gaze as the impala continues to take them down the deserted road.

"We all forget sometimes, Sammy." He admits in a calm tone.

Sam worries his lip and nods, his breath hitching. Dean twists his lips, flashes him a soft smile and looks ahead again.

"Jess existed" He repeats kindly, his voice a whisper. "And she made you happy."

"Yeah." Sam acknowledges. "Yeah."

"But we're still here. That… that matters too." Dean adds. It's hopeful and hesitant and as close as a plea as Dean can get.

Sam closed his eyes and focuses for a second on evoking Jess encouraging him warmly, of her giving him hope. The Jess that brought him breakfast in bed, pulled his hair to get his attention, and rubbed his back when his small world crumbled.

That was Jess, and when Sam finds her, he holds her tight.

"Yes." Sam smiles, as a tear rolls down his cheek. "It's the only thing that matters."

And then he lets her go.

THE END

Back to Master Post

They adjusted. It was hard at first. It would always be hard in some ways, but it was also one of the easiest dynamics to fall back to. Easier than staying with Lisa or pretending to be normal, that was for sure. Dean Winchester felt good hunting with his brother. Even if his brother was one of the things they hunted. Sam was getting better at controlling his abilities. While his telekinesis was unstable, and he couldn't accomplish simple tasks such as turning a page of a book, he was very good tapping into electronic circuits. If something had a button, he could zap the sensor under it.

So Dean got him an e-book. And Sam researched a lot, surfed channels on TV and drove the Impala's radio crazy.

The worst part for Dean was not being able to see Sam for real and know whether he was sad, or angry. Know whether he was even there at all. Dean always kept himself close to their "chat window" and Sam rarely kept quiet for long, as if he knew how bad Dean needed to be reassured of his presence. But the most Dean could do was trust his sibling when he typed that he was okay, unable as Dean was to contrast his words with his tone of voice, or the unmistakable look in Sam's eyes. He was still Sam's big brother and he knew how to interpret the pauses between the lines. Sam's hesitations when he struggled with words. He hadn't stopped sensing Sam's vibes in the soul-pulling way that had drove them to Missouri months ago. But the fear was still there. Like the time they had fought over one or the other's stubbornness and Sam had stopped talking to him. Dean had cracked after two hours, begging into thin air for his brother to tell him he hadn't left.

Or the time they had been fighting a poltergeist, and it had blindsided Dean. Sam had thrown himself between his brother and the threat, energies collapsing and cancelling each other in a violent blast that made Dean's ear ring and his eyes well up. He spent two days beside himself with worry, as Sam gave no sign he had "survived" the stunt, because he was too weak to contact him.

After that, Dean tried to make Sam promise he wouldn't risk himself again. The younger simply refused and it was most infuriating to Dean that he couldn't just beat some sense into him. The younger seemed convinced that nothing would wash him away from Dean's side, but the elder wasn't that confident and he was even less willing to prove the theory. In the end though, he had to accept it, because Sam had always done what he wanted in life, and he turned out to be even more obstinate in death. It felt good to know his ghost-brother had his back, almost like hunting with a superhero. It didn't mean that he stopped calling Sam his sidekick. And ironically, Dean began to take extra care of himself when they hunted, because now it was about protecting Sam as well.

It was a year later that Missouri got a call from a hospital in Maine that made her pack quickly and hop on a plane in a record time of three hours. Some Dean Johnson had been admitted, and he had her listed as an emergency contact. They were rather vague about his condition, and the psychic felt as if she was holding her breath all the way to Bangor until she was ushered into Dean's hospital room and could lay her worried eyes on her young friend.

"Oh dear. Dean?" She fussed.

The older Winchester was laid up on a narrow bed, strapped to a number of IV tubes that made Missouri cringe internally. Part of his head was bandaged and his left leg was elevated and immobilized in a cast. He looked pale, lines of fatigue and pain slashing his bruised face, but his eyes were clear enough when they snapped open and met hers.

"Missouri? W-what?" He croaked, his voice cracking as if his words were made of crystal.

Missouri swallowed hard, still shaken by the sight of Dean Winchester broken in front of her.

"He was out when they searched his things and found your number." A defeated voice informed her from the corner. "I wanted to help... But they wouldn't... I couldn't."

Missouri's head snapped to her right so fast she almost pulled a muscle. Sam was by the opposite wall, half-sitting on the window sill, arms crossed and expression closed-off as if he wanted to disappear into himself. For all the dullness in his eyes, the younger Winchester radiated misery.

"Sam, there was nothing you could have done." Missouri said softly, imagining Sam's helplessness at not being able to speak up for Dean in the hospital.

"So he's here, huh" Dean cut in, his voice weak, but relieved beneath the snarky tone. "Princess Sammy has refused to talk to me for the last two days."

"You don't have the laptop, jerk." Sam bit back, although he wasn't looking at his brother.

"Coulda… dunno…messed a bit with the lights or something, man." Dean protested. "Let me know that you were around."

"The room is full of machines" Sam growled. "Some of them, by the way, are attached to you. Sorry for preferring not to 'mess around'." He spared Dean a brief, annoyed glare, and mumbled moodily under his breath. "Besides, where the hell would I have gone? Jesus, Dean."

Missouri arched a fine eyebrow at the siblings, picking up on a tension between them that didn't feel caused only by their present miscommunication.

"What happened, boys?" She asked carefully, her gaze alternating between Sam's tense frame and Dean's battered face.

Sam averted his eyes, chewing silently on whatever that was eating at him, while Dean looked down a moment, a frown installing between his eyebrows. Missouri took the moment of quiet to study the older Winchester closer, taking in the several injuries now that she was more serene. Besides the leg-cast and the head-bandage, there was something odd, cautious in the way he favored the left side of his torso. Decidedly, and totally unfazed by the warning look Dean shot in her direction, she advanced to the bed, grabbed the covers and uncovered the patient to his waist.

"Hey!" Dean glowered at her, indignantly.

Missouri gulped, her heart stuttering at the sight of another bandage covering the young man's lower torso, with extra padding in his left side of his belly. The faint red of a stitched wound under the several layers of protection made her stomach churn lightly and she withdrew her hand, clenching her teeth as she stepped back.

"He almost bled to death, that's what happened." Sam muttered darkly.

Missouri dragged her eyes to the younger sibling, whose attention was back on Dean and his wound. Sam's chin trembled almost imperceptibly as he tightened his arms around his own body. Exasperation was clearly written in his tone, but underneath it, Missouri could feel that Sam had been and still was badly shaken.

"I'm fine." Dean hissed, reaching out to pull the covers over the bandages. The movement made him wince, but hiding the injury from Missouri ―probably mostly from Sam― seemed like a priority for him. "He's just pissed, because I didn't listen to him."

"You can't go against a werewolf alone, dammit!" Sam snapped, sudden rage covering the shaky edge of his voice. "I'm not strong enough to help you against something corporeal!"

"I had it covered." Dean countered, gritting his teeth. "The wolf was already down."

"Yeah, only you were down too." Sam retorted. "Out of a frigging window!"

Missouri's breath caught at the piece of revelation, her gaze returning to Dean full of alarm.

"You what?" She gasped. "How… how many stories?"

Dean let out a huff, half rolling his eyes, but his jaw was set in a stubborn line that spoke of pain and back off.

"It was a two-story house, no big deal." He dismissed.

"A shame you had to fall into a picket-fence." Sam bit back.

"Oh, sweet Jesus…" Missouri exclaimed, eyes going wide.

"Sam." Dean warned, expression tight. "Enough."

The younger brother pursed his lips, eyes flashing. He held his tongue with obvious effort, digging his fingers into his biceps in frustration. This was not the time to fight, Sam knew. Not with Dean hurt and drained, looking too small in a nameless hospital that smelled of loneliness and antiseptic.

"How long have you been here, Dean?" Missouri inquired.

Dean took a few seconds to respond, still caught in the tension that thickened the air between him and Sam. Letting out a long breath, the older Winchester sagged against the pillow and glanced at Missouri out of the corner of his eye.

"Couple days." He replied vaguely.

"Four." Sam corrected softly. "He had surgery the first and spent the second in and out of it."

Missouri sighed and tossed Sam a motherly look, but the younger didn't quite meet the psychic's gaze. His eyes were suspiciously bright, fixed on Dean as he shook his head slightly to himself. Sam's anger had faded, but the naked regret left in its wake tore at Missouri's heart. It must have shown on her face, because Dean looked from her to his invisible brother and deflated just as fast.

"Sammy…" Dean sighed. "I'm fine, okay? I'm sorry I scared you."

"You don't even mean that." The younger snorted wetly. "I was there, remember? You were dying on me and you… I saw it in your eyes, Dean. You didn't care."

Missouri looked at Dean again, a flutter of apprehension teasing the pit of her stomach, but the older Winchester could only stare back at her frustratedly, having lost the thread of his brother's words.

"He thinks you wanted to die." She murmured.

Dean's eyes sharpened slightly, a spark of surprise flaring in the hazel depths, but to Missouri's dismay, he didn't protest. Dean pulled in a breath and gazed at the area of Sam's position for a long moment, before lowering his eyes to the sheet and toying absently with the fabric.

"Dean?" Missouri croaked, fear turning the call high-pitched.

"I didn't impale myself for kicks, Missouri." He replied, somewhat defensive.

"No, you didn't." Sam admitted. "But you… you didn't fight, Dean. You were conscious and your phone was within reach and you wouldn't…"

"I saw you." Dean cut Sam off roughly.

Sam's breath caught as he fixed his brother a wide-eyed, stricken look, effectively silenced.

"What?" Missouri asked feebly, her pulse racing.

Dean's throat worked up and down a couple of times, and when he seemed to find the energy to continue, his voice was gravelly and shaky as if the ground cracked under their feet.

"It thought it was my mind playing tricks on me. Lights were flickering and exploding in the entire block, sirens going off everywhere…"

"I had to… someone needed to come out and find you…" Sam muttered breathily.

"But then I realized it was you doing it. And I could feel your hand in mine. And you were…right next to me… begging me not to let go."

A silent tear ran down Sam's cheek, his breath hitching as he mumbled, "Not to let go of life…you idiot, not me."

"And I got it then." Dean continued. "What Ash told us in Heaven. We're going together, Sammy." He smiled weakly. "And I'm sorry if it bothers you, I really am. But I'm not afraid of dying if it means I'll see you again."

Sam let out a tear-clotted laugh and closed his eyes. At a loss for words, Missouri rested a hand on Dean's arm and gave him a warm squeeze.

"Fair enough." Sam finally croaked. "Just…will you just…?" He swallowed and wiped at his eyes, trying to even out his breathing enough to speak. "Just don't be in such a hurry, you moron. I'm not going anywhere."

"He'll wait for you, Dean." Missouri said softly.

Dean gave a soft chuckle and nodded. Lying back, he let his eyelids drop, his whole body going lax as a smile tugged up the corner of his lips.

"Good. Now enough with the Oprah scene. I just want to get out of here like yesterday."

Sam rolled his eyes, suppressing his own tears as he ribbed back. "Forgot the little detail of being a human kebab?"

Missouri chuckled, surprising herself. Dean's smile widened, though he kept his eyes closed and his words began to take the softest of slurs into each other.

"He's being a smartass again, isn't he?"

"Maybe. He's had a good role model." Missouri jibed, making Sam laugh.

"Ouch." Dean pouted, one eye opening to a glaring slit.

"I'll go find a doctor. See if anyone can tell me anything about when you can go." The psychic smiled at him and gave Dean a parting pat on the shoulder.

"Thank you." Dean said gratefully.

"Sam?"

"I got him." Sam assured her.

As Missouri went to the door, she glimpsed Sam carefully approaching Dean's bed, his eyes warily jumping to the several machines in case any of them decided to go crazy near him. When nothing happened, the younger sibling slumped in a near chair and bent forwards, elbows propped on Dean's bed, and face buried in his hands. As if by magic, Dean rolled his head in that direction and his body relinquished the last drops of tension that kept his body on guard. He whispered something Missouri couldn't catch and Sam nodded, one of his hands dropping from his face to rest over Dean's.

Doctor first. Then she was going to find those two a laptop.

THE END

Back to Part 1
Back to Masterpost

GHOST'S WHISPERS

The knock at her door was persistent, and she hurried downstairs as fast as her old legs allowed her. It better not be one of those door to door sellers, she thought. Or even worse, a preacher. For some reason the local pastor had bestowed upon himself the sacred mission of regaining her into his flock, and his well-intentioned minions still dropped by from time to time: no matter how many years had passed since the last time she stepped into a church.

"I'm coming!" She huffed, when the doorbell rang again. "Jesus, I hope this is import-"

The words caught in her throat as she opened the door, and her heart stuttered inside her chest.

"Oh..." She muttered, her lungs constricting into a knot."Oh, dear."

"Missouri."

Dean's voice was as ragged as his appearance, tired lines and dark circles under bloodshot eyes making the thirty-year old look way over forty. He was shaking ever so slightly, his hands clenching by his sides nervously as if he were trying to quell the tremors. But it was the aching anxiety emanating from him that shone like a beacon for the psychic. It hit her in waves matching Dean's rapid heartbeat; disjointed bursts of bits and pieces of impossible events reached Missouri's mind's eye and she gasped, stepping back unconsciously to try and find somewhere to lean on.

"Oh..." She repeated helplessly.

Sam stood next to Dean, wearing the saddest expression Missouri had ever seen. His eyes were fixed on Dean, his lips pursed in a sorrowful grimace.

"Oh, my poor boys." Missouri muttered, her eyes watering as she covered her quivering mouth and chin with her hands.

Sam's focus jumped to the woman and his eyes widened as he held her gaze with a vulnerable intensity that pinned Missouri in place. Dean narrowed his eyes on her, and his breath arrested at her words.

"Can you see him?" Dean asked in a broken voice, rough and wheezing, as if he were drowning.

Missouri couldn't tear her eyes from the younger Winchester, not even when Sam's eyes welled and tears flooded down his cheeks. Because Dean was a total wreck, but Sam...

Sam was dead.

Oooooooo()oooooooO

"Can you really see me?" Sam asked, his voice frail, and awed, and so full of hope.

Missouri's head swam, as she tried to process the mixed feelings of need, and despair radiating from both brothers. She glanced at Sam, impressed and a little scared by how sharp he appeared. The younger Winchester looked older than she remembered him, aged beyond the number of years he had been allowed to live. Like his big brother, Sam's young face was marred by a horror Missouri couldn't begin to comprehend.

Still, she nodded her response, as she wordlessly ushered Dean inside. The older sibling looked like he was about to fall to pieces, both physically and emotionally. It said a lot that he allowed her to walk him into the living room and there he slumped onto the couch as soon as it was within reach. Missouri would have considered offering him a glass of whiskey, or something strong to erase the exhausted paleness on Dean's cheeks, if the hunter didn't already smell of alcohol. She shivered at the thought of Dean driving for miles in his condition, in order to find her.

"Missouri." Sam insisted, with a broken edge to his tone.

"Yes, Sam." She answered calmly, her mind still reeling. "I can see you. And I can hear you too."

Dean let out a wet chuckle and buried his head in his hands. His shoulders shook spasmodically, but it was hard to tell if he was laughing or crying. Sam's distressed gaze landed on his brother automatically, and the younger man bit his lip hard as he approached Dean and sat on the couch's armrest. Close enough, Missouri noticed, yet without touching Dean. Then Sam gazed into the psychic's dark eyes again, begging her wordlessly to help him.

"What happened to you, boys?" Missouri asked sadly.

Neither of the brothers seemed to be ready to answer her. And when she reached out and brushed Dean's bowed head with her hand, she immediately wished she could un-know what she saw. Dean's memories of evil and pain and the end of the world flooded her mind unbidden. Years of torture. More years of heartbreak. The weight of their fate was crushing; the choices they had made were unthinkable. Sam's death hung heavy in every particle of Dean's spirit, his loneliness a hole that swallowed all his energy, tore at his walls and shattered his will every time he tried to pull himself together. It was no wonder that at some point down the road, Dean had stopped trying.

"I... I need to sit down." Missouri stammered, plopping down on a chair across the siblings and panting through the lump in her throat.

Her hands shook as she poured herself a cup of valerian. She always had a thermos ready, in case things got too intense with a client. It was ironic that it was she who craved the soothing power of the herbs now.

"Dean, sweetheart, here, drink this." She prompted, as she poured him a cup as well. "You'll feel better."

Dean raised tear-stricken eyes to the cup and accepted it, but even after wrapping both hands around it, Dean trembled so badly that the warm infusion sloshed dangerously close to the rim. He took a cautious sip and Missouri noticed Sam tensing out of the corner of her eye, the younger's attention fixed on his big brother, as if his instinctive move had been to steady the cup for Dean. But Sam restrained himself. He wasn't really moving or talking; he simply followed Dean with haunted eyes and a shell-shocked countenance that was painful to watch.

"I guess it would be silly to offer you a cup, wouldn't it?" Missouri commented, smiling a little in an attempt to reassure Sam.

Sam rewarded her with a small, shy smile. Dean looked up, bruised eyes flickering to Missouri and then around the room.

"Where is he?" Dean asked, his tone hesitant and his voice husky with emotion.

Missouri turned her kind smile to the older Winchester and spoke gently. "He's right next to you. Sitting on the armrest."

Dean's gaze quickly followed the psychic's indications, and he stared at the spot where Sam was with such longing that Sam squirmed a little.

"I thought I was going crazy." Dean confessed, his voice hushed as if he were telling a secret.

Sam swallowed hard and lowered his eyes in embarrassment.

"I thought I could sense him. Sometimes, I'd feel him trailing behind me like before, or I'd feel someone watching me and knew it was him." He whispered.

Missouri nodded knowingly. She knew the feeling well enough. What really amazed her was that, even though Dean wasn't a psychic, he was certain of the bond he and Sam shared. It went way beyond her powers.

"Lisa... She thought I wasn't dealing. That I was imagining things." Dean continued morosely. "And I got to thinking she was right, you know? But then lights flickered from time to time and I couldn't... ignore that. Or explain to her why I kept the EMF on and it would suddenly go off all the way to red."

"I shouldn't have stayed around." Sam said out of the blue, his voice chagrined. He looked up at Missouri with an expression that begged her understanding. "I just... I didn't know where else to go."

Missouri nodded lightly, barely managing a rough "It's okay" aimed at both siblings. Dean's lips tugged up in the corners, hinting a shaky smile. Sam looked like he was about to cry again.

"I thought maybe he was back to haunt me." Dean continued; anguish coloring his words as he looked over at Missouri. "I dreamt of him in Hell. Every time I closed my eyes, I'd imagine him being tortured and I couldn't-"

"No, no, no" Sam intervened urgently. "Tell him that I wasn't tortured. I don't know where I was, or why I am here, but I don't remember Hell. Missouri, tell him. I'm fine, please tell him."

The psychic's heart broke a little more at that. She felt torn between the wrongness of being privy to the Winchester's most intimate fears and words to each other, and their need for her to interpret them. The situation was awkward and downright heartbreaking. How did that Melinda girl do it on TV? One thing was for sure, Missouri was no Jennifer Love-Hewitt.

"Sam wasn't tortured, Dean. He doesn't remember being in Hell." She said softly.

Her words were supposed to be reassuring, but Dean welcomed them with a ragged breath and renewed tears.

"Good. That's good." The older sibling croaked, as he wiped at his eyes furiously.

"Dean..." Missouri muttered kindly.

Dean raised a trembling hand to halt her instinctive approach, as he ineffectually tried to rein in his emotions. Missouri stayed away, helplessly watching as the young man fell apart right in front of her, despite his attempts for control. She wondered how long it had been. How many weeks or months it had taken to destroy Dean Winchester so completely. And she also wondered whether she would ever be able to put him back together again.

"Dean..." Sam said sadly.

The younger Winchester vacated his spot on the armrest of the couch, his expression broken as he approached his sibling. Ghosts didn't do boundaries. And what was more important, brothers didn't have to respect them when their gut told them otherwise. Sam crouched before Dean and placed a gentle hand on his brother's knee. It was what Missouri had ached to do, but couldn't. Ironically, she thought that Sam would get through his brother's spirit better than her physical attempt at comfort ever could.

"Hey." Sam called to Dean sympathetically, his tone reassuring. "It's okay. You are okay."

Missouri watched in awe as Dean unfolded himself and placed a hand over his knee, over Sam's, as he looked ahead, straight into Sam's eyes.

"I knew I could feel you, Sammy." Dean repeated in between ragged breaths. "When things got really bad, when I was spinning out of control, I'd sense you were around. You calmed me down."

Sam's smile was sad in response and he shook his head, keeping his gaze locked on their non-touching hands.

"I should just go, Dean. What I am doing to you-" He started.

"You're not going anywhere." The older growled.

Sam blinked, shocked by Dean's vehement words. Missouri's eyes widened too, and she held her breath as Sam spoke.

"Can...can you hear me?" He asked hopefully.

"No." Dean answered without losing a beat. "But I fucking know you."

Sam bowed his head and his shoulders shook with a chuckle, sudden and suspiciously wet.

"Fair enough." He whispered, as he slightly leaned his forehead against Dean's.

Missouri watched through moist eyes as Dean's shoulders sagged and he leaned forward too. She could only wonder if the siblings did indeed feel each other at some level, even though their flesh couldn't touch. The psychic knew the boys weren't the clingy type, but with Dean so desperate to feel his little brother and Sam's ghost hungry for sensations, she figured that if anyone could make it possible, it would be them.

Whether it was due to his little brother's steadying presence or something more mundane like the herbs or plain exhaustion, Dean started to relax. His chin still trembled, but the anguished tension was slowly fading from his face and muscles and his breathing evened out. He was crashing and, as he wavered on the couch, Sam remained immobile, holding tenderly onto him.

"Can we stay here, Missouri?" The younger asked in a thin voice that indicated that he was quite at the end of his rope too. "He hasn't slept properly since forever and..." Sam trailed off and closed his eyes with a sigh. "I can go if you want, but he needs to rest."

Missouri shook her head softly. After all that had happened since they had knocked on her door, she couldn't believe Sam was even asking.

"Of course you can, boys. This is your home."

Oooooooo()oooooooO

Missouri woke up early the next morning, roused by the sound of chatter on the first floor. She followed the sound to the kitchen, catching some words as she approached.

"You should have tasted my churros, man."

"Dean, hearing you talk about your churros is making me uncomfortable."

"That's because you always were a repressed crêpe kind of guy."

A soft smile touched the woman's face as she listened to the brothers' banter. It widened even more radiantly when she got to the kitchen and found Dean making coffee, his frame relaxed and a glint back in his green eyes. Sam was only a few feet away, sitting on the counter like the overgrown kid he was. The younger was also smiling as he and Dean teased each other. He looked alive, and Missouri relished in the sight despite what her common sense told her. Maybe this was wrong, but watching them interact in a synchronicity that went beyond death was pretty amazing.

"Missouri." Sam greeted her softly, expression turning tentative in her presence.

He was about to jump from the counter, probably thinking it was rude to sit there, but the psychic waved a hand to stop him.

"Good morning, boys." She chirped.

Dean turned to her, happiness struggling with embarrassment on his face. Missouri had the feeling that it had been a while since Dean had felt at ease or talked so naturally.

"Morning." The older Winchester greeted.

His eyes were still lined with accumulated exhaustion, but they were clear, bright and... grateful. It was Missouri's turn to blush. She hadn't done anything, but lent them a couch to crash on, yet Dean was looking at her as if she had personally dragged him back from a world of insanity.

"Is that coffee?" She asked, trying to hide her awkwardness.

"Yes, Ma'am." Dean promptly answered. "Would you like a cup? I can make pancakes or toast if you prefer."

"Wow, is that so?" She asked with a chuckle. "I hope you don't burn my pans, kid, or I'll-"

"He hid your wooden spoon." Sam noted.

"He did what?" Missouri exclaimed.

"Tattletale." Dean grumbled.

Sam chuckled and went to the table to sit across from Missouri. She shot him a scrutinizing look, and his smile wavered, but he held her gaze, leaving himself open to her.

Are you okay?

I'm hanging in there.

Is he?

Sam's attention went to Dean and his smile softened.

He will be.

And the gaze Sam returned to Missouri was as appreciative as his brother's.

"Thanks for letting us stay, Missouri." He said, his tone heartfelt.

The woman rolled her eyes. "Don't mention it, sweetie."

Dean shot her a curious glance and followed her gaze to the chair Sam occupied.

"He's not tearing up on you or anything, is he?" Dean teased casually, as he approached the table with a couple of plates.

"Bite me." Sam shot back.

"You wish." Dean retorted automatically.

"Boys! What kind of language is that?" Missouri chastised them.

The siblings looked down and muttered a rueful apology in unison, but the amusement didn't fade completely from their faces. It was amazing that they were the same two shattered souls that had shown up on her doorstep the previous night. All she had done was reconnect them, nothing more, but the change was miraculous.

"I didn't know you knew your way around the kitchen so well, Dean." Missouri remarked, honestly impressed by the breakfast Dean had prepared.

Dean shrugged as he sat down next to Sam. "It's just omelet and toast." He said off-handedly.

"Lisa is teaching him how to cook." Sam pointed out, as he toyed with the edge of a napkin he couldn't touch.

"And who is Lisa?" Missouri asked good-naturedly, since it was the second time the woman's name came up.

"Sam." Dean gritted out, his voice warning.

The younger hesitated, taken aback by Dean's serious tone, and glanced sideways at his big brother. Dean kept his eyes on the mug he had in front of him, without budging.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked. Then, he looked at Missouri, frustration clear in his eyes at not being able to communicate.

"Sam wants to know what's wrong, hon." Missouri provided calmly, an awkward feeling of inadequacy gripping her again. This sure seemed like none of her business.

"Nothing's wrong." Dean huffed and stood up, discarding the rest of his coffee. He seemed to purposely avoid meeting the psychic's eyes or the vicinity of Sam's as he continued. "I don't want to talk about her, that's all."

Missouri glanced at Sam, gauging the situation. Even though Dean had pulled his poker face on, the terseness in his voice was razor-sharp. His little brother seemed bewildered, but then something shifted in Sam's eyes. It was realization. And then anger ensued.

"You're not going back with her, are you?" The younger questioned flatly.

Missouri hesitated, looking alternatively at each sibling. She didn't know what the story was, but it was obviously a sore spot, and she didn't dare to intervene.

"You promised me, Dean." Sam continued. His tone edged into watery as he pinned Dean with a hard look. "You love her, man. And you love Ben! This is your chance to leave all this crap behind!"

Dean, of course, didn't respond. But he knew that Sam was talking, probably even imagined his words and sensed his mood. Arms crossed in a defensive gesture, the older Winchester kept his gaze glued to the floor as he spoke. "Sammy, I tried, okay?"

"The hell you did!" Sam exclaimed, getting to his feet abruptly. "You ran at the first hint of a problem, Dean! You have no right to throw your life away!"

"Sam..." Missouri chimed in evenly, trying to calm him.

"NO!" Sam bolted. "No, dammit, he's being an idiot!"

The table clattered minutely at Sam's outburst, and Missouri froze, her appeasing words dying on her tongue as she glanced at Dean. The older Winchester had noticed the commotion too and was keeping himself very still with his hands fisted at his sides. His expression was tight and collected, but his lips trembled lightly. Missouri realized that he was torn between saying something that would make Sam get off his case and wishing to sense his little brother again, even if it took rage for Sam to physically manifest. Sam seemed the only one in the room who hadn't realized his own power, too worked up to see past the red blurring his sight.

"You promised me, Dean. You promised me!" Sam cried indignantly. "You are alive, you asshole! I'm the one who..." Sam swallowed hard, trailing off in his tirade. "I just... Why won't you try to be happy?" He finished thickly.

A beat of silence passed and no one said anything. Missouri was keeping her head low, uncomfortable and helpless despite all her years of experience dealing with ghosts. This wasn't a psychic problem, but it was something between Sam and Dean. And while she understood both positions, she doubted they would ever agree with each other. Dean was still quiet by the counter, his eyes empty of all emotion. His walls had been drawn up so high not even Missouri with her abilities could see over them. And Sam... Sam was shaking with frustration, standing ramrod straight by the table. Dean couldn't hear him and even if he could, he probably wouldn't listen.

"Fuck it." Sam blurted, anger and defiance blending with grief in his voice.

He turned around and stomped towards the door, slamming a hand against the frame as he left the kitchen. Dean's eyes flickered to the door as the air vibrated again. Then he slid his eyes to Missouri, who had tracked Sam's enraged exit with her gaze. Neither of the two said anything at first and Missouri found herself holding her breath.

"He's always been a brat in the mornings." Dean said finally, forcing an off-handed tone as he returned to the table and sat down with the psychic.

He was attempting to sound carefree and dismissive, but the stiffness of his shoulders told a very different story. Missouri guessed that it had to be terrifying to fight with a brother you couldn't even see, or know if he would come back.

"He's just upset." Missouri reassured him. "He said that you had promised him."

Dean huffed a cheerless laugh and shook his head lightly. "Actually he made me promise." Dean explained in a rough voice. "Sam wanted me to have a normal life, with a family and all that shit."

"And you didn't want that?" Missouri prodded gently.

Dean averted his eyes and exhaled wearily.

"Sometimes...yeah. After everything we had been through I kinda did." He admitted with a light grimace. "But not like this. He never asked me if I was okay with it. Missouri, I can't go back to them."

"He says you love them." Missouri added, her own lips twitching sympathetically.

Dean swallowed hard and closed his eyes briefly. He looked so lost Missouri felt the impulse to reach out and cover his fisted hand with hers, but the psychic didn't think Dean would welcome the touch. Hunters were skittish when they felt vulnerable, she remembered that fact from John.

"They are awesome." Dean whispered, almost reverently. "But I-" Dean clicked his tongue, opened his eyes and turned to her. "I don't think I love them. Not like that... I just..."

Missouri nodded when her young friend lost his struggle for words. It was obvious he cared a lot for Lisa and Ben. But the unconditional, absolute way Dean had loved his father and especially his little brother was so mind-blowingly intense, it was practically impossible that his feelings for anyone else would ever compare.

"Dean, honey." Missouri cajoled. "I know it's not easy, but it can be worth it in the end. Sam is right, why don't you give it a chance?"

Dean's eyes hardened and he fixed Missouri with a stern glare.

"Because they wouldn't get it." He said, his tone hurt and final.

Missouri let out a soft sigh, feeling suddenly sad beyond words. She understood, how could she not? She had been dealing with spirits and grieving relatives all her life, and she recognized the bond Sam and Dean shared. It was the only thing that really mattered to Dean and severing it would destroy him beyond what a caring woman and a loving kid could possibly repair. It wasn't lack of acceptance that had brought Dean to her door, but his last vestiges to self-preservation.

She also recognized his happiness, and she had the feeling that the smile she had seen on Dean's face when she had first joined the siblings in the kitchen was probably the first honest sliver of happiness he had experienced since he had lost Sam. What really saddened her was that while she understood, to anyone else, Dean talking to Sam would look and sound crazy.

And that meant that as long as Dean held onto his dead brother, normal would never have a place for him.

Oooooooo()oooooooO

Sam didn't come back for the rest of the day. Dean, of course, didn't say a word about his brother's absence, but Missouri knew he could sense it. The psychic did her best to keep him distracted, giving him chores or asking him to run little errands for her. Dean did everything she asked, his smiles calm and frank whenever she managed to elicit one. He even chuckled when she found the spoon he had hidden behind the microwave and waved it in his face menacingly. But there was an undeniable edge of anxiety in the way Dean moved around the house, as if he was constantly looking for something. As afternoon faded into evening, Missouri finally took pity on Dean's misery and poured him a shot of whiskey. He raised an eyebrow at the drink.

"What happened to the valerian?" He asked, his tone slightly amused.

As an answer, Missouri shoved the glass into his palm and poured another one for herself, earning a soft snicker from the weary hunter.

"I do have blood in my veins, boy!" Missouri exclaimed, faking offense.

She grimaced at the burning taste of the amber venom though, and Dean genuinely laughed.

"Bottoms up, sister." He winked, before tossing his drink back.

Missouri didn't have more, but she left Dean the half-full bottle and retreated to the kitchen to allow the hunter room to regroup in peace. Barely an hour later, she returned to the living room and found the bottle empty and Dean lying on the couch, fast asleep.

Sam was there too, sitting on the floor by the couch, his gaze sorrowful as he awkwardly petted the blanket pooled at Dean's feet.

"Hey." Missouri greeted softly. "Where have you been?"

Sam shrugged, without raising his eyes, and kept fiddling with the blanket. A frustrated frown settled between his brow and Missouri realized that Sam was trying to spread the blanket over his brother. Walking towards them in silence, she gently took over the task of covering the sleeping man with the wool fabric.

"I'm sorry." Sam whispered, as if he didn't want to wake up Dean.

Missouri let out a soft sight and sat in the chair by Dean's head, while Sam stayed at his feet and laid a hand on Dean's ankle.

"I think it's Dean you should tell that to." She remarked.

Sam's smile was sad as he answered. "I'm afraid you may have to tell him for me."

Sam had a point, but somehow Missouri disagreed. She knew better than to think that only half-bottle of whiskey would allow a hunter like Dean Winchester to sleep deep and peacefully. At some level, Dean must have sensed his brother back without Missouri's help.

"He's going to throw it all away." Sam spoke up again, still in hushed tones. "He's going to leave them...and he's going to do it for me."

"In a way, perhaps." Missouri conceded. "But it's not your fault, honey. This is what he wants. It's his choice."

Sam shook his head mournfully. "He's never had a choice."

Missouri's stomach knotted impossibly tight, but she swallowed discreetly to keep her feelings where they belonged.

"Maybe." She said in a gentle voice. "Or maybe you never understood why he chose the way he did."

Sam's bright eyes zeroed in on hers, emotions warring across his pale face. Missouri hadn't intended to sound accusatory, but Sam looked ashamed. Dean had told her the shortened version of what had happened to them in the last few years, though it was surely edited for her sake, Missouri had been able to gather that things hadn't always been great between he and Sam. But it was useless to have regrets now, what was done was done. She wished Sam would eventually understand that his brother didn't hold any grudges against him anymore. Loss did that to people, it put everything into perspective. She had seen it a thousand times before.

"You know, sometimes I think he should just vanquish me, once and for all." Sam admitted, defeat lacing his voice. "I have thought about asking him to do it, but I can't put him in that position again. It hurt him every time. And I don't want to keep hurting him, Missouri. I won't."

Missouri could only nod, realizing by Sam's defensive tone that he had expected her to disagree. What's dead should stay dead, right? Sam didn't belong on Earth anymore and they all knew it. And yet, he did belong, because if something had felt natural in the boys' screwed up life against the unknown, it had been to stick together no matter what.

"I also thought about leaving." Sam continued ruefully. "But then I thought of all the times I've disappeared on him throughout the years and it was wrong every time. I can't do that to him again, not anymore. He's my brother, Missouri."

"He is." She echoed kindly.

Sam chewed on his bottom lip nervously and his throat bobbed up and down. He looked young and lost, grounded only through the absent hand he gently kept on his brother's leg. But more than anything else, Sam looked beat to a bone-deep level. Maybe his ethereal body didn't show it, but his eyes spoke volumes.

"Sam, have you slept at all since you...you know?" Missouri asked tactfully.

Sam seemed surprised at the question and let out a soft snort. "I don't think sleep is a vital need for me anymore."

Missouri allowed her lips to twitch in a responding smile as she countered: "You may not need it, but you surely could use a break, son. Why don't you try? I'm sure you'll feel better."

Sam's gaze turned opaque and elusive. Missouri frowned.

"What's wrong?

"What if I don't wake up?" He wondered frailly.

"What do you mean?"

"I still don't know what I am or what's keeping me here. Maybe if I go to sleep I'll drift away, or appear somewhere else or... never wake up again."

Missouri's frown of concern turned into one of understanding and her smile softened.

"If that's what bothers you, honey, don't be scared. Just go to sleep; you're not going anywhere." Missouri assured him.

"But how can you be so sure?" Sam demanded, in a thin voice.

The woman canted her head and narrowed her dark, almond eyes on Sam.

"You still don't understand, do you?" She asked, more as a realization than a question. "As long as Dean is here, you aren't going to disappear."

Sam gave her a confused gaze, laced in hope but uncomprehending at the same time. Missouri sighed around her emotions and spoke calmly, amazed and moved that Sam hadn't seen the obvious reason of his presence there.

"It's Dean that's keeping you here, Sam." Missouri smiled again, looking over Dean's sleeping form. "You're attached to his soul."

Oooooooo()oooooooO

Dean never seemed really interested in finding out why Sam hung around instead of moving on. He was simply content to have him and, eventually, it was enough for Sam too and the younger stopped looking for answers.

Missouri was happy to take them in, although as the weeks passed, it was obvious that Dean was starting to get anxious. He was a man shaped by the road, and staying too long in the same place was alien for him. On top of that, he probably felt he owed Missouri more than a couple of errands or soulful words of gratitude could begin to express, and Dean Winchester hated to be in debt with anyone. If the siblings had been able to communicate between them, the psychic was sure they wouldn't have stayed for so long.

They barely brought up Lisa or Ben, although she and Dean talked on the phone sometimes, especially at first. The older hunter always went outside to take the call and Missouri stayed politely away, while Sam retreated to the farthest corner of the room and fumed in silent guilt. It usually took Sam a few hours to get back to Dean after his increasingly sporadic conversations with Lisa. Those were the days when Dean drank the most.

A month later, it was Sam that told Missouri the succinct tale of his death. Dean refused to talk about it, and apparently never would. But one day, Dean had gone out on his own and Missouri and Sam were alone. Intrigued as to why Sam wasn't with his brother, she asked where the older had gone.

"He's gone to the cemetery." Sam replied softly, his tone hard to identify. "But I don't... I can't go back there."

And Missouri was horrified when she learned the whole story about what had happened in Lawrence's cemetery and the events before that. But Sam's regret ran deep enough to swallow him back into the ground, so she forced herself to keep calm for the sake of the young man that had sacrificed everything to save the world.

"I don't understand why he wants to go to that place again." Sam gritted out, exasperation masking the fear and concern in his voice. "He keeps punishing himself for what happened, I know he does. But he won't talk about it and I can't do a damn thing to help him."

Missouri studied Sam as he agitatedly paced back and forth across the living room. He was wound up so tight his muscles trembled and the vibration passed into the air and reached the psychic's core in waves of desperation.

"You keep punishing yourself too, kid. It's only natural that he does too." Missouri said reasonably.

"It was my fault." Sam argued automatically.

"No, Sam." Missouri countered evenly. "It was the role you were given to play in a story older and more powerful than you. And you did the best you could. Both of you did. You defeated the Devil, Sam."

Sam clenched his jaw, obviously wanting to retort. Missouri could almost read his thoughts, the Yeah, but at what price? burning on the tip of his tongue. And judging by the way he paused by the window, restlessly waiting for his brother to reappear, Missouri knew that Sam wasn't referring to his own situation, but Dean's.

"For what it's worth, I don't think he goes to the cemetery to punish himself." Missouri offered. "I think he goes there to remember. It's the last place Dean saw you, Sam. I think he just misses you."

Sam's eyes darted to hers, his tight-lipped countenance wavering as frustration mutated into pain.

"It feels so lonely, Missouri." Sam whispered softly, as in a secret confession. "Sometimes I need him to see me so badly it's like dying all over again."

The woman nodded in understanding, and gave Sam a compassionate look. She was aware that it was killing the boys not to be able to talk to each other directly. But the truth was that where they saw only failure, she marveled at the little things that connected them. Such as the times they were watching a movie and Sam laughed at something on the screen, triggering an automatic smile from Dean. Or the times Sam would be humming a song to himself and, later in the day, Dean started to sing the same tune.

"It's going to get better." She said confidently. Because if God apparently existed, there couldn't be any other way. "You'll see, Sam. I promise it will be okay."

Oooooooo()oooooooO

Sam started trying really hard to "Swayze" things, as the boys called ghostly telekinesis. He knew he had the power, but didn't have any control over it. It was even more frustrating when Dean knew Sam was trying, because the elder was deadly silent, alert, so desperate to somehow see Sam that the pressure became too much for the younger Winchester. After a while, Sam asked Missouri not to tell Dean when he was practicing, and the psychic respected his wish. She wanted to offer encouragement though, and normally stayed in the same room Sam was.

It feels so lonely, Missouri. He had said.

And maybe Dean knew. Most probably he could relate to the feeling. The fact was that he seemed to sense when Sam got himself in a Jedi obsessive mood and he also understood why Missouri wasn't telling him. Those times Dean kept close too, pretending not to know what was going on, and aching to offer his own brand of silent support.

As days passed, Sam grew increasingly frustrated at not being able to have a solid connection with anything. One afternoon he got so worked up his energy exploded all over the place, causing the entire room to vibrate in a mocking reminder of what he should be able to accomplish if he was able to concentrate that force.

"Dammit! DAMMIT" Sam yelled, despair getting the best of him.

Missouri shot him a compassionate look, but her empathy only riled the younger Winchester up even more.

"Don't look at me like that!" He hissed. "Don't pity me, Missouri."

The psychic schooled her expression, even though inside her stomach had tightened impossibly hard. If the flickering lights and the electric air were any indication, Sam needed to take a breath and calm down, but the kid was a tired mess of stressed up energy and he was losing his nerves. The problem was she understood where he was coming from and didn't know what to tell him. Maybe he just needed to yell it out.

"Sam, knock it off." Dean ordered out of the blue.

Two pairs of bewildered eyes zeroed in on Dean. The older hunter's expression was blank, his gaze bland as he leafed through a magazine, but his tone was unmistakably colored of big brother authority.

"You're tired and this sucks. I get it." Dean continued, raising his eyes and instinctively directing his gaze to the corner where Sam was fuming. "But you need to take it easy, already. Every time you throw a tantrum the wiring goes crazy and Missouri doesn't need that."

"Dean, that's..." Missouri began to say, shaking her head.

"A tantrum?" Sam cut her off, shooting daggers at Dean. His fists were clenched tight at his sides and there was fire building in his voice. "Fuck you, Dean. FUCK YOU!"

"Sam..." Missouri tried to appease him, wincing at the barely contained rage coming from him like psychic punches.

"You say you get it?" Sam snarled, ignoring her attempts to calm him. "You don't get SHIT! You know what's like being but not being? Unable to touch or speak or hold on to anything!" He seethed, storming towards Dean, until he was towering over him. Missouri gasped and stepped forwards, but Dean raised his palm to stop her. "I'm doing this for you, you son of a bitch! Because I want to talk to YOU!" Sam yelled, eyes locked into Dean's unseeing ones, as he cornered the elder in his chair.

Missouri felt her hair standing on end when her psychic abilities spun out of control at the unexpected force filling the room, making the air crackle and the furniture dance. A sudden crash made her jump and she turned around so fast she almost lost her balance. The vase on the table had shattered into pieces, right where it had been placed over the table cloth. Nothing had knocked it over, it hadn't fallen. Apparently it had exploded.

"Feel better now?"

Dean's loaded question trapped the woman's attention again and she turned to the brothers. The older Winchester was back on his feet and was fixing Sam a grave and surprisingly precise look, while his little brother stared in shock at the destroyed vase. All previous rage had leeched out of his face, and only puzzlement and regret adorned his ivory-pale expression.

"Now we're gonna have to pay for that." Dean added moodily.

Missouri thought about stepping in and reassuring them that she couldn't care less about the vase, but at the last moment she held her tongue, as she realized that it wasn't the point. Sam turned to Dean again, his gaze filled with conflicted emotions. The elder's jaw was tense, muscles ticking in a nervous sign of emotion. While his eyes betrayed nothing but calm, his hands were fisted at his sides in a defensive gesture. Sam took in his fighting stance, toe to toe with Dean, in sick realization of how close they had been to coming to blows, and quickly stumbled away.

"Dean..." Sam muttered.

His brother's name quivered on Sam's lips, rueful as an apology, and needy as a prayer. He was shaking, whether from humiliation or the aftershocks of the power rush, Missouri didn't know, but it was the intensity with which he strained to really meet Dean's eyes that moved her the most. Because unfortunately it wasn't a matter of will or love. Dean couldn't see Sam, he probably never would. Letting out a wounded sound, Sam stepped back, swallowing convulsively to keep his frayed self together. He couldn't stop his eyes from tearing up, and he bowed his head, wrapping his arms around his torso.

"I can't do this." He panted, wheezing a little as panic seized him. "I can't do this. I can't do this." His voice broke and he shook his head with a mirthless sob.

"Sam..." Dean spoke up, his voice softening as his own anger deflated. "Man, c'mon. You need to be patient alright?"

The younger raised his devastated eyes to Dean's and chewed on his lip so hard he would have drawn blood if he had been alive.

"I can't, Dean." Sam whimpered in a thready voice.

"You can do anything you set your mind to." Dean's words fell into an intimate whisper and Missouri found herself averting her eyes. "Always could, Sammy." Dean continued fondly. "I admire that in you."

Sam laughed, then swallowed hard to rein in his ragged breath. Dean's words were anchoring him, his faith in his little brother steadily pulling Sam from the edge. It was what the younger had needed to hear, or rather the person he had needed to hear it from. As Sam relaxed, the air around him felt clearer and a look of determination replaced the anguished mix of tears and crumbling hope in his eyes.

"Tell him I'm not going to let him down." Sam asked, calmer now.

It took Missouri a second to acknowledge that Sam had addressed her, and a beat longer to find her voice around the knot in her gut.

"I think he knows."

Oooooooo()oooooooO

Two days later, her heart would lodge into her throat again at finding Sam in the living room, sitting dejectedly in a corner, with his legs pulled to his chest and his face buried into his arms. He was shaking, sobbing inconsolably in a way that pulled at every ounce of the mother Missouri had never been. The psychic crouched awkwardly next to him, oblivious to the creak of her knees or the instinctive warnings of her old heart, but as soon as she was near, the overwhelming force of the young man's grief inundated her brain, her lungs and burned inside her skin. The impact almost knocked her out, too much and too close for the psychic's senses to cope fully.

"Dean!" She called out franticly. "Dean!"

The older Winchester rushed into the room, his eyes widening in alert as soon as he spotted her on the floor.

"What?" He questioned, hastily going to her. "What's wrong?"

Something caught Dean's attention as he passed by the table and he stopped cold. His expression went rigid and, dizzily, he reached out with both hands to steady himself against the edge of the table and hung his head low.

"Dean?" Missouri demanded, even more fearfully.

Sam raised his eyes a couple of inches, irises moist and blood-shot, and fixed his brother the look a five year old would give when he wanted to be held too badly to express it with words. Dean looked like he had just seen a ghost, but although Missouri wished with all she had in her that the irony in that statement would magically turn literal, the older Winchester hadn't moved his eyes from the laptop screen placed on the table.

"G-God..." Dean stammered in a strangled voice. "I've missed you, bitch."

The sound that escaped Sam was halfway between a laugh and a groan, but there was an inexplicable joy in it that pushed Missouri to her feet and towards Dean. There was a word typed on the screen, flickering gently. As loud as a scream.

It said "Jerk."

And then Dean started crying in earnest.

Oooooooo()oooooooO

Dean was never far away from a screen from then on. Sam kept getting better at chatting, as Dean put it, and could ever do it from afar. He didn't need to actually push the keys, as Missouri had expected, but somehow zap the sensors under them. Dean had said it was much better that way, because it would be really freaky to see the keyboard moving. But then the one time they had used a tactile keyboard on the computer screen and the keys were highlighted when Sam typed, Dean had thought it was the most hilarious thing on Earth.

"We need to find a smiley for your bitchface." Was one of Dean's favorite jibes. And Sam would glare at him from his position, typing nothing just to keep Dean on edge. "And another one for flipping your finger. Because you're totally doing that, aren't ya?"

"Boys!" Missouri scolded them, feigning indignation. "Watch your manners!"

"Do you think she could actually get me with the spoon?" Sam mused in his neat Times New Roman style.

Dean's eyes flickered to the screen when the laptop beeped and let out a curt chuckle. "I wouldn't test it. She's got a mean right arm."

Being able to talk to each other changed them like night and day. There was still an edge in the way they interacted, of course, an unhealed wound that pulled at their skin and reopened their flesh when they moved too far from their comfort routines. But they were relaxed; their roles easily back in place. Dean joked and teased Sam all the time, maybe just to keep his little brother present. And Sam rolled eyes and bitched and always responded. Once Dean had dared Sam to try to text him on his cell, and the big geek had actually tried to make it happen, but couldn't figure out how or where he needed to focus for it. He had ended up switching channels on the TV instead, a new habit that drove Dean crazy and made practicing his mojo on the remote even funnier for Sam.

Being able to interact with the computer also made Sam less fretful when Dean was asleep or away, as he could now pass the time browsing the net, playing and whatnot. Missouri observed him many nights, a mixture of pride and melancholy squeezing her chest, as the young man sat before the screen and typed his loneliness away in total silence.

Until one day, habit not only prompted Sam's fingers to dance unnecessarily over the keys, but also guided the topic of his concerns. Missouri heard Dean upstairs, his voice surprised as he asked "Have you been researching?" She waited for Sam's answer with baited breath, but only grasped the low beep of the computer as the younger responded without using his voice. After that, she heard nothing else, but Dean's soft typing, which meant the siblings where talking to each other in their new way of keeping secrets from her.

It was unsurprising, but no less heartbreaking, when Sam and Dean went to meet her in her study a couple of days later. The elder sibling stepped ahead, his eyes clear and his spirit ready. He looked so different from the devastated man than had landed on her life less than two months ago that Missouri couldn't keep a note of pride from shining underneath the impending sadness of goodbyes.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" She said simply, meeting Dean's green eyes with her dark ones.

Dean's gaze softened, the corner of his lips twitching up in an apologetic half-smile. A step behind him, Sam looked down, seemingly nervous.

"I'm sorry." The younger muttered.

Though tears were hinting their presence in the back of Missouri's eyes, her smile to Sam was honest and her voice broke only a little as she reassured, "There is nothing to be sorry about. I'm glad you boys are better."

Dean averted his eyes for a brief second, mentally checking on a little brother Missouri was sure he perceived at his back. Then he returned his gaze to the psychic, hazel eyes warm and soulful.

"Missouri, what you have done for us..." Dean started in a grave voice that reminded the psychic of John with aching clarity. "I can't even begin to say-."

"Then don't say it." She cut him off, her voice stern. "Just don't."

Dean blinked silently at her, his jaw flexing subtly as emotion swelled in his throat. She could only stare back, pinned by the hunter's intense look, even as her composure flip-flopped around the pit of her stomach.

"Thank you." Dean whispered roughly.

Dean Winchester didn't show true gratitude easily; Missouri could sense that about him. Those two words were everything he had: a promise that he wouldn't forget, that he would always be there. A statement: Missouri had saved his life and from now on, Dean's existence belonged to her. Missouri closed her eyes to keep her old heart from dissolving into tears. The smile she returned Dean was wobbly.

"Anything you need, Dean." She croaked. Then she extended her look to include Sam. "Anytime. I mean it."

"Yes, Ma'am" Both brothers responded at unison.

It made her smile too.

"You take care." She ordered firmly.

Sam's eyes slid to Dean's as the older nodded, then smiled at Missouri.

"We will." Sam vowed.

Which meant he would take care of Dean. Missouri's smile steadied. Maybe Dean's life belonged to her, but his soul was taken. And somehow, it made her think of Lisa and the life Dean could have built with her if doing so hadn't meant a choice between both.

They were gone by morning, and to her amused surprise, a brand new vase like the one Sam had broken was left for her on the table.

 

HELP ME STAND

He saw her constantly, everywhere. At first, she appeared only in his dreams, but now he also saw her when he was awake. And God… she was gorgeous, even more than he remembered. Usually she just stood where he could see her, wrapped in white silk, her golden locks waving in a gentle breeze, soft like lover's fingers. As Sam's own fingers had often played with her hair not so long ago.

There she was now, sitting across the table. Her head was slightly tilted, and her intense gaze was locked onto his. She wouldn't blink; not a single word would slip out of those full lips that used to drive him crazy.

"Talk to me, Jess." Sam whispered. "Please…"

But she didn't say anything and her expression remained chilling cold. Her eyes were like tiny blue beacons that sparkled in the gloomy bar and those piercing eyes never left Sam. Her accusatory look was enough to steal his balance, to take his breath away and leave him shaking in the middle of the day or the night.

Sam downed his shot of Tequila to fight the lump in his throat, and forced himself to focus on the laptop in front of him. The letters on the keyboard were blurring a little and he felt his fingers funny when he tried to type. Sam looked up a second, at the sound of Dean's voice. His brother was in a corner of the bar, playing pool with a gang of locals. Apparently, they were raising the bets, which meant that in half an hour or so, Dean would be back with his usual cocky smile and enough cash for the next two weeks. Sam had to make an effort to spot his older brother among the others, because now the bar was starting to blur as well. Only Jess' image appeared sharp and clear in his field of vision.

"I'm sorry." Sam said, his voice low, "I'm sorry I left. But he…he had said it aloud for the first time. That he needed me. And I…" Sam breathed in and avoided Jessica's eyes. "Forgive me. It was my fault"

His voice cracked and he downed another shot without thinking. He was starting to feel numb and, somehow, he hoped that the numbness would get to his brain soon and just switch it off. He couldn't deal with it anymore. He was too tired.

"Please Jess, just talk to me, say something. Please…Anything. I can't…I don't know what you want from me. If you just told me, I swear…" Sam begged.

But Jessica said nothing. Jessica did nothing. Her coldness reached him across the air and made Sam shiver. He was unable to meet her gaze, and it was getting suffocating. Instinctively, Sam looked for Dean, who was standing by the pool table. Dean didn't know anything about his visions of Jess and Sam wasn't sure he wanted to change that. If he told him what was going on, Dean might think that his geek brother had lost it –hell, right now Sam wouldn't trust his sanity either. Or worse, he would blame his freaky shinning thing and make it even scarier than it was already.

Only, now, he wanted to call him. Just call him and ask him to make it stop. He wanted to call him, because Jess was never around when Dean was. Immediately, Sam glanced at Jessica, full of remorse. Had he just wished that she, the love of his life, disappeared for good? Was he turning his back on her again?

Another shot. How many had he had, already? This time, even Jess' pristine image was starting to fade and her striking blue eyes, the green and red neon lights of the club and the crowd's voices were slurring all together in a sickening mix.

One more down.

Go away.

Sam grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself on the chair and took a deep breath.

Go away.

When he regained control of his senses, Jessica had vanished. Sam gasped and looked around, confused. Not seeing her was almost as painful as seeing her. One way or another, it was breaking his heart. He swallowed hard. Wasn't it too hot in there? He needed to get out and get some fresh air, so he tried to stand up.

Bad idea.

The whole room started to spin and Sam's knees buckled. He reached out to try to lean on the table but he missed it by a couple of inches and fell back down on the edge of the chair. Involuntarily, he elbowed the bottle of Tequila and knocked it over the laptop.

"Shit!" Sam mumbled.

The screen went black and he took some paper napkins to dry the keyboard, but with the hurries he didn't notice that the bottle of Tequila was still rolling over the table, and when it fell, the loud crash against the floor made him jump.

"What the hell…?" Dean's voice right behind him startled Sam, "What are you doing?"
"I, uh…I didn't mean to…" His younger brother apologized.

Dean took some napkins himself and pushed Sam aside to wipe the keyboard.

"Dammit, Sam! Tell me you didn't spill a drink on the most expensive tool we have." Dean yelled.

Sam grumbled something unintelligible; his cheeks felt as if they were on fire. Hazy and ashamed, it was all he could do to keep it together and Dean's angered voice pounding inside his head wasn't helping at all. His tone was so similar to his father's that he had the feeling that if he looked up just now he would find John's face staring back at him, instead of Dean's. And so, he just buried his head in his hands and pressed his thumbs against his temples to fight the uneasiness that being scolded by his father had always caused in him. Besides, he couldn't really make out Dean's words anymore, because they were slurring and mixing all together.

Dean, however, didn't seem to notice his brother's discomfort and kept on and on…

"Shut up." Sam said tersely.

Dean glared at his brother, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

"What did you just say?" The older asked, with a dangerous edge in his voice.

"You heard me."

For a moment, it seemed that Dean would punch Sam. Or that he'd yell his throat out at him. At least, that was what Sam was expecting him to do –almost hoping he would do. But Dean froze before making up his mind between the two options, forgot about his useless attempt to recover the laptop and observed his brother warily.

"Are you…drunk?" Dean asked, honestly puzzled.

Sam snorted and looked away. Dean wasn't really expecting an answer, was he? And he was too tired to apologize right now, anyway. It was bad enough to disappoint him. By Sam, Dean's face shifted from anger to surprise, then went slightly amused, and finally a bit concerned.

"Jesus, Sam. What were you thinking?"

Sam took a deep breath and struggled to get to his feet, without meeting Dean's gaze.

"I wasn't thinking, genius"

Dean ignored Sam's annoying attempt to provoke him and made a step towards his little brother.

"Where are you going?

"Out…I'll…a walk"

"Nah, kiddo." Dean shook his head. "I'm afraid party time is over."

He tried to help Sam but his younger brother shove him off.

"I can walk!" Sam protested.

Dean raised his hands as surrender and murmured a soft "Alright", as Sam finally managed to walk past him towards the door. Dean frowned and tracked his brother's staggering pace, now genuinely worried. It was so not like Sam to get wasted that the whole situation had caught him by surprise. He took the laptop, paid for the drinks and followed Sam to the parking lot, giving him some space but at the same time keeping himself close enough to catch him if he stumbled.

The night's cold air was like a slap on the face and the younger Winchester's head began to pound mercilessly. He closed his eyes to keep the world from spinning too fast, but it didn't help much. Where was the Impala? Ah, there it was.

And there she was. Sam froze and rubbed his eyes. Jessica didn't move; she remained still against the passenger's door with her graceful arms hanging flaccid by her sides. Their eyes met. Sam stepped back and gave a pained moan. His head was clouded and he searched something to hold onto; finally, he ended up bending against the hood of a dusty red Range Rover. At once, Dean was by his side and grabbed his arm.

"You okay?"

"Go away." Sam said weakly.

"Easy, dude, I'm just trying to…"

"So this is how you punish me? By not talking to me?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Leave me alone! GO AWAY!"

"Sam!" Dean shouted, forcing his brother to turn around and face him.

Sam gasped and his whole body shuddered as if he had suddenly woken up from a nasty nightmare. Dean noticed that his eyes weren't focused and he had the certainty that Sam was about to collapse, any minute now. But still, Sam pushed Dean away and stumbled backwards, out of his reach.

"What's wrong with you?" Dean asked, upset. Sam was a mess, and he was a mess too because if there was anything he hated more than ghosts, spirits and the rest of monsters they fought, it was feeling helpless about anything concerning his little brother.

Sam raised a trembling hand to keep Dean from coming any closer and tossed a look towards the Impala. Jess was nowhere to be seen.

"I think I'm gonna be sick…"

The young hunter fell on his knees and retched with a strangled sob. Dean hesitated, internally fighting the urge to go to his brother. Sam had made clear he didn't want Dean to baby him in that very moment and, to be fair, he couldn't blame the kid, because probably he would do just the same if Sam tried to baby him. But still… Something serious was going on with Sam: that was obvious even for someone as dull in dealing with emotional wrecks as Dean was. He shouldn't have yelled at him inside. Sam was probably mad at him now, and that was why he wasn't letting him help. Damn, damn, damn…

Calm down, Dean. He's just sick. Too much Tequila, not a big deal. Give him a minute and then take him to the motel. Tomorrow, you'll kick his ass!

Sam arched painfully with a last heave; his cheeks were wet with tears due to the effort. He had emptied his stomach on the ground, until there was nothing else left to throw up. The younger Winchester sat with his back against the Range Rover and gave a weary sigh. Every single muscle of his body ached as if he had been run over by a million tones truck. He wasn't feeling any better either —weren't people supposed to feel relieved after throwing up?

"Sam," Dean spoke, after giving his brother a moment to collect himself.

Sam wiped the tears of his eyes, hating the fact that his hand didn't stop shaking.

"I'm fine." Sam insisted.

And as if he wanted to prove it, he scrambled to his feet and looked at Dean in the eye with a combination of stubbornness and vertigo.

"Yeah, sure." Dean answered.

There was no sarcasm in his voice. He really didn't want to pick a fight with Sam, because that was the last thing his brother needed right now. He was stubborn, so what? Let him be. After all, that was what his father had taught them since childhood: be strong, do not show your weakness. John Winchester had carefully drilled that into his children's brain and, especially, he had convinced Dean long ago that he had to be tough with Sam to make him strong. Dean had believed John and he had come to hate his own vulnerability, so day by day he made sure no one could tell if he was hurt, confused or scared. So far, he was doing pretty well with that, he even started to believe it himself. The thing was, there was something in the way his brother shut himself from him and tried hard to keep up with their father's "do not let your emotions get in the way" philosophy that felt incredibly wrong. For the first time in his life, the thought crossed Dean's mind that his father may not always be right.

"It's getting late and it's freezing," said Dean as casually as he could, "I don't know about you, but I'm going back to the motel."

Sam looked down and swallowed. The Impala was only a couple of cars away and Dean started his way to the driver's door, keeping an eye on Sam.

"So, are you coming or what?"

Sam nodded lightly and followed Dean, swaying a little. Apparently, Dean had accepted to let him do his own thing, but Sam noticed that his brother walked slower than usual and allowed him to catch up. This way, both got in the car almost at the same time. Dean reached for something beneath his seat and, after a while of rummaging around, he took out a bottle of water and passed it over to Sam. The younger brother seemed a bit surprised at first, but accepted it and took a good swig.

"Thanks."

Dean shrugged, with his eyes already on the road as he turned the engine on.

"Hey," He ordered, "Fasten your seatbelt there."

A minute later, they were headed to the motel. This time, Dean didn't turn the music on, and Sam appreciated it. He leaned his forehead against the window's glass and sighed, letting his eyelids drop. Dean kept shooting glances at Sam, internally wishing his brother didn't fall asleep on him before getting to the motel, because he seriously doubted he would be able to carry him inside without waking him up, and that was something he would hate to do, since during the last months he had learnt to treasure Sam's sleep more than anything.

Sam didn't fall asleep, although he didn't say a word or moved a muscle during the drive back. When they arrived to the motel, Sam blinked slowly, with a sad, serene look, opened the door and got off the car. However, a wave of dizziness forced him to sit again. Dean stopped mid-gesture, ready to go to Sam the second his brother made the slightest signal showing that he wanted him to. But Sam didn't do anything close to that and, after a minute, he followed Dean into the room. Once inside, Dean sat on his bed, stretched and let out a tired groan.

"My particular shining tells me there's a wild frat boy who's gonna have the queen of all hangovers tomorrow...If I were him, I'd put myself to bed right away." Dean suggested playfully.

Sam didn't protest. Knowing Dean, he had to be making a hell of an effort to keep a light mood on the whole thing.

"Yeah. In a minute." He answered.

Sam went to the bathroom and closed the door behind him. The white light glistening over dozens of white tiles made him a bit light-headed as he walked to the sink and turned the faucet on. He stared at his own reflection on the mirror as the water slipped though his fingers. He looked terrible: pale, sweaty, exhausted both physically and emotionally. Sam bent over the sink with his elbows on the marble and washed his face, gulping some water in the process. The cool water felt good on his heated skin and, for a second, the thought of letting himself drown crossed his mind.

Sam raised his head slowly to make sure he was able to keep dizziness under control. His face shone with dozens of water drops trickling as little pearls down his skin, eyelashes and honey brown bangs. He took a deep breath and steadied himself before stealing a last glance at the mirror. And when he did, his heart froze inside his chest.

Jess was there, right behind Sam. The younger Winchester bit his lip and shut his eyes.

"She's not real." He said to himself.

But then, maybe she was. Painfully as it was, he among all people couldn't rule out the possibility that maybe it wasn't simply remorse that caused these visions.

Sam opened his eyes but kept his gaze low, unwilling to find Jess' usual unreadable expression. It took a moment for him to brace himself until he felt ready to turn around and face her. His throat tightened. Her vacant expression had changed into a heartbreaking sadness; her cold accusatory eyes were now in tears and her full lips once so tempting and lately so pale were half open and trembled uncontrollably.

Sam's knees buckled and he leaned against the tiled wall, trying to catch his breath. Before he could control them, fresh tears mixed with water rolled down his cheeks. He made an insecure step towards her, but Jessica didn't let him come closer and stepped back, which made Sam stop as if he had been struck by something heavy. He wanted to say something, but his mind had gone blank. Suddenly, a bright tear rolled down Jess' cheek and she shook with a sob.

"Jess?" Sam cried, his heart shattering in hundreds of pieces. "Baby, I…"

Jess glared at him thought her tears and Sam held his tongue. Everything was happening in a haze, the world around the edges of Sam's vision darkened, blended and disappeared. Only Jess stayed, in front of him, with a devastated look that was making all his walls crumble. And then she spoke, with a quivering voice.

"I loved you, Sam," she cried, "I loved you!"

She started to fade away. Sam moved forwards to reach her, but his hands grasped nothing but air.

"No!" Sam exclaimed.

Her hurt good-bye look got engraved on Sam's memory as if it had been branded. Then the emptiness of the room jolted and swirled around Sam making his head spin. Jess was gone…and Sam couldn't breath, let alone thinking about breathing. Actually, he didn't realize he lacked oxygen until white spots distorted his vision and he felt himself slumping to the floor with his back against the wall.

oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo

Dean's eyes followed his brother as he went into the bathroom and, when Sam closed the door, the older Winchester rolled on the bed and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He heard the echo of the water running inside the bathroom and sighed, still perplexed at the events of the night. Although he tried to relax, he was unconsciously holding his breath because if Sam made any noise he didn't want to miss it. The time passed. How long was he planning to be in there?

For Christ sake, you're acting like a suspicious wife. Leave him alone, it's been no longer than four or five minutes.

Another minute passed. One more minute of water running and running thoughts.

Maybe I should go and check on him…just to make sure he's okay.

Dean bit his lip trying hard to keep his protective instincts at bay.

Of course he's not "okay", asshole, he's fucking wasted. Nothing to be much worried about anyway, he'll be better by morning. C'mon, it's not as if you had never seen him drunk.

Indeed, although Sam drank very rarely, Dean could remember a handful of good drunken nights back when they were growing up. In his first, of course, he was initiated by his older brother, as everyone who has read the secret book of How to be a Cool Big Brother knows it should happen. How old was Sam then? Sixteen? Yeah, they had fun that night, Dean remembered with a silent chuckle. They had gone to a club together (the younger with his first handmade fake ID –ah, if their father had known how useful his lessons were) and they had a good laugh over too many beers. Later that night, Dean practically had to carry Sam home, because the kid couldn't even stand by himself. John had been furious. Especially at Dean.

If Dad was here, he'd lock him in the bathroom to make him learn the lesson.

After that, he had only seen Sam really drunk once, twice…three times at most, but never sick. After a couple of beers Sam would feel talkative (after a third, he would stop making sense, though), act funny or simply get sleepy.

Anyhow, during the last months since they had left Stanford, Sam had behaved as a perfect abstemious. In fact, he used to give Dean dirty looks whenever he had more of two beers (and Dean used to ignore them just as well, if he wasn't planning to drive). Anyhow, one thing was for sure, Sam had never got drunk in the middle of a job. And more important, he'd never looked so broken. Not like this.

Suddenly Dean realized he couldn't care less about what their father would have done or not. Their father wasn't there. Yes, maybe there was nothing to worry about, perhaps he should give Sam some space…That would be the most mature thing to do, right? But something was wrong, this time was different. Sammy was hurting. Shit, Sammy was all alone in the bathroom.

What the hell were you thinking?

Dean was up and in front of the door in a heartbeat.

"Sam?" He knocked on the door. "Hey, you okay?" No answer. "C'mon, Sammy, you haven't passed out, have you?" Still, no answer. All right, now he was officially worried. "Look, I'm coming in."

Dean opened the door slowly and peeked into the bathroom. He didn't see his brother right away, because he wasn't in front of the mirror as the sound of the water had made Dean expect. Instead, he located Sam slumped wretchedly on the floor, next to the sink, with his arms around his knees and his face buried in them. Dean made a hesitant step forward. Maybe that wasn't such a good idea, after all. Somehow, it was like intruding into a very private moment of his brother, and during the last hour Sam had made clear that he wanted Dean to back off.

"Sam," Dean called, to let his brother know that he was there as he approached the faucet and turned it off.

Sam stirred and clasped his fists tighter. Dean swallowed a relieved sigh: at least Sam hadn't passed out. At the same time, he couldn't help but feeling a pang of bitterness towards him. Was it so difficult to answer back when he had called him from the door? He could have saved himself a good five seconds of anguish.

Inch by inch, Sam raised his eyes up to his brother.

"Dean?" He said weakly.

The second their eyes met, Dean felt his heart constricting, and any remains of anger or reluctance vanished as if by magic. Sam looked so lost, just like a little boy, and his voice sounded younger than ever.

"Hey, buddy" Dean's voice came out softer than he had expected. Softer than he believed to be possible, to say the truth. He crouched in front of his bother and smiled to him. "World's still spinning around here, huh?"

Sam looked down, sheepishly. Dean placed a hand on Sam's knee and gave it a gentle squeeze, glad that his brother didn't push him away.

"I'm sorry." Sam's voice broke.

"For what?" Dean joked, "Getting wasted in the middle of a job, damaging your beloved laptop or knowing that you're going to be grounded until you grow bear, young man?"

His attempt at humour was lost on Sam, who didn't laugh, not even smiled. Instead, he looked away deeply ashamed. Dean bit his tongue, angry at himself and his usual lack of tact.

"Don't be silly, Sammy" Dean whispered reassuringly. "It's alright."

Again, he gave Sam's knee a little squeeze and stood up to offer his hand. The younger Winchester accepted it a moment later, and their hands found each other's wrists.

"On your feet." Dean encouraged Sam, as he pulled his brother up.

Sam let his brother help him up, but as soon as he regained verticality, the world swayed and he stumbled forwards.

"Whoa, easy now." Dean whispered, steadying Sam by the elbows as the latter landed practically in his arms and leaned against his shoulder. He gave Sam a couple of seconds to regain his balance and then pushed him gently to straighten him up.

"C'mon, man."
"No."

Sam wrapped his arms around his brother and Dean felt how much he was shaking as his little brother gripped his top tightly.

"Please, just this time. Just a moment…Please." Sam implored.

Dean's heart pounded hard against his chest and the knot in his stomach became physically painful. Was Sam begging him not to push him away? But why would he think that Dean would push him away when he needed him?

Dammit, Sam.

His baby brother was asking him to let him be weak and he was genuinely scared that Dean would despise him for it. He hadn't realized that things were so fucked up between them, and they sure as hell must be, if Sam believed that Dean had become such an insensitive bastard.

You let him believe that.

No, he didn't... Did he? Alright, Dean was not the sharing-caring type, but Sam should know that he was there for him…Right? He had to know that.

"It's alright." Dean whispered, forcing his voice to sound steady.

He put his arms around his brother and held him. Sam stiffened at first, and Dean had a guess that Sam hadn't seen it coming. Most likely, he had expected Dean to resign himself to "be hugged" by his whining brother for a short while, before forcing him to collect himself. Yeah, that would have been very much like him, wouldn't it? But that wasn't going to happen.

"It's alright." He repeated.

Sam's held him tighter and Dean guided his brother's head to rest against the crook of his neck. The moment Sam buried his face in his brother's warm skin, he broke down. At a complete loss, Dean responded the only way he could think of: by tightening his own hug to prevent Sam from falling.

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry." Sam cried.

His tears were warm and stung like little needles. His uneven breath turned into shallow intakes and he clung to Dean with such strength that Dean could hardly breathe himself. The older Winchester was overwhelmed. Sam wasn't simply hanging on to him, it seemed like he was trying to merge with Dean, to nestle inside of him and disappear.

To hide.

Dean winced, because Sam wasn't only grasping his shirt while he sobbed his heart out, but his flesh too. Still, he pressed his brother's shaking body roughly against his chest with his left arm protectively wrapped around Sam's back and his right securely placed on the back of his brother's neck, massaging the tense muscles there with his fingertips. He rested his cheek on Sam's hair and rocked his head while hushing soothing sounds into his ear. He was aware such a tender behaviour wasn't like him, but he was equally aware that Sam was leaning into the touch. It made him feel weird, but also a bit warm. Especially it rendered him willing to do anything to give his little brother the comfort he so desperately needed.

It took a long time, but finally Sam's ragged sobs subsided and the younger Winchester started to synchronize his breathing with Dean's. Gradually, Sam loosened his hold, as part of his former angst faded, but he kept hanging onto his brother, who wouldn't let him go either. Since Sam seemed more composed, though, Dean allowed himself to hug him in a gentler way and stroked Sam's hair distractedly with one hand, while he rubbed his brother's shoulder with the other. Sam sighed and his muscles relaxed. His body grew heavier in Dean's arms. Another sigh, this time quieter, and Dean found himself closing his eyes, as Sam's signs of relief washed over his frayed nerves too.

Then Dean did something he hadn't planned. Something that just came out of him and he hadn't done for years. He brought his lips to Sam's temple and placed a soft kiss on his brother's silky hair. He felt Sam swallowing and then his little brother gave him a little squeeze as an answer.

"Any better?" Dean whispered.
"Yeah," Sam muttered, his voice hoarse.

Dean smiled and they held each other for a few minutes longer, until Sam's body language let his brother know he was ready to let go. Dean gave him a little last pat and then released him.

"Dean, I'm-"
"Don't, okay? I mean it, don't apologize."

Sam nodded, but avoided eye contact. Dean took a deep breath. His steadying hands were still on Sam's shoulders, and he squeezed them gently to coax Sam to meet his eyes, which the younger reluctantly did.

"Sam," Dean started gravely, "What is it?"
"It's nothing"
"Man, you…"
"I'm fine." Sam protested.

Dean snorted and let his hands fall, in a clear sign of helplessness. Of course, Sam was aware of how ridiculous that sounded, but he didn't expect Dean to believe it. Only to leave it. Dean swallowed down the bitterness of knowing that Sam had been hiding those tears from him and even now that they had finally been shed, he wouldn't explain where they had come from.

Distressed, he paced the bathroom, wondering when this had all started. When had his baby brother stopped looking up to him for comfort? When had he stopped trusting him to fix things up? When had he decided to shut himself off from Dean rather than letting him in?

At the Benders', Sam had proved he could take care of himself; in fact, he had rescued Dean and not the other way around. And he had also had to see him on the verge of death when he was electrocuted. Sam had saved his life not once but many times before that, since Dean had dragged him out of Stanford. Dean had to admit he had been weak there, he had not only preferred Sam to go with him but needed him to, and maybe his Sammy had grown smart enough to notice the difference.

No wonder his superhero aura was gone.

Maybe it had started earlier. He remembered now the look –this same look- on his 7 years old brother's face the first night Dean had obeyed his father's orders and sent Sammy back to his room after a nightmare, instead of letting him climb to his bed. After that, Sam hadn't mentioned any night terrors again and Dean thought they had stopped. He had never thought that Sam might be actually hiding them, but…that was Sam.

That's the Sam you've created.

He didn't want things to be like this. He really didn't. He turned around and looked at Sam, who was sitting down on the closed lid of the toilet, with a troubled expression. Dean frowned at the realization that Sam expected him to be angry and he was certainly mistaking his frustration for anger, so he forced himself to calm down and went to him.

"Sam, please." Dean started. And it was Sam's subtle change of expression that made him realize that his own voice had broken. He didn't care, though. Not this time. "Please, you've got to talk to me. I can't…" He was pleading now, looking intently into Sam's eyes, "I can't fix it if you don't tell me what's wrong."

Sam's face softened. He wasn't being fair with Dean, and he knew it, but Jess's visions, the nightmares, all of that was his burden, not his brother's.

"You can't fix everything." Sam said softly. "And that's okay, I don't expect you to."

Dean shook his head, looking hurt and upset. Sam wasn't giving in, he wasn't giving him the slightest chance. He felt the sudden need to take a swing at the wall or smash the first thing at hand. Only a miraculous effort of willpower and self-control saved the soap bar to end up in the far corner of the bathroom.

"You could let me try!" Dean finally spoke with a trembling voice, "I dunno… I'm still your big brother, right? I- I could help."

"You're here." Sam said earnestly. "That helps."

Dean clicked his tongue and averted his eyes, looking defeated.

Bullshit. It is me who needs you. It's you being here that makes everything alright.

"Dean, I mean it. It does." Sam repeated.

Dean sighed and eyed his brother. He wouldn't let the conversation turn into a "making Dean feel better about himself" moment. He still thought that Sam needed to talk, but regardless of whether he liked it or not, Sam was free to keep whatever that was bothering him to himself as long as he wanted. The other thing Sam desperately needed was resting, and that Dean could take care of. There, then, there was something he could do to help.

"Yeah, well, whatever." Dean shrugged, and forced a smile back on his face.

Sam frowned; it was obvious that Dean didn't believe him, which by the way annoyed his younger brother more than can be said, because he had meant every single syllable of those words. But before he could insist, Dean spoke again.

"Anyway, Sammy, you look like shit, and I'm definitely not carrying your heavy ass to bed, so what about we get you some sleep before you faint to the floor?"

Sam blinked, taken aback by Dean's sudden change of subject. Then, his lips curved in a lopsided smile.

"It's Sam, you know?"
"Well of course it is, big boy." Dean mocked. "But you're still a lousy drinker, if you ask me."

Sam chuckled and rolled his eyes. After all, Dean was right and he was feeling absolutely worn out.

"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you...?"
"Sure."

Dean walked to him, no more words needed, and helped him stand. Sam leaned on his brother's shoulder for support, as Dean put his arm around his waist.

"Ready?"

Sam nodded and they started their way to the door, one step at a time, holding onto each other. Before leaving the bathroom, Sam looked back, to the last spot where Jess had stood a while before.

"Hey, you still with me?" Dean asked, noticing the change on his brother pace.
"Yeah." Sam breathed.

The younger hunter turned ahead and flashed a smile at the affectionate look Dean welcomed him back with. He knew his big brother was supporting almost all of his weight and the words "I'm sorry" came to his lips. But there they died, because there was a more pressing thing he needed Dean to know. And the best way to convey it was as simpler word.

"Thanks." Sam said, giving Dean's shoulder a soft shake.

Dean pulled his younger brother's body a bit closer as a response. For some reason, that felt good enough. Maybe Sam hadn't lied after all.

"Don't mention it."

oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo

Back to Masterpost

Dean woke up, unsure of where he was. It wasn't an unfamiliar sensation and he had grown accustomed to it, so he repressed the first, instinctive reaction of alarm, breathed deep and tried to take stock of his surroundings. Nothing hurt, so no injuries, check. Silence, so no apparent immediate threat, check. Thin sheets, musty smell: motel room. Check.

Apocalypse, Day 1.

Dean closed his eyes and stretched his muscles under the covers as he struggled to wake up completely. It was still dark, so not many hours must have passed since he had managed to coax his brother to bed. Opening his eyes half-mast, Dean breathed out and rubbed his stomach unconsciously where it felt knotted and faintly cold after Sam had broken down in his arms the previous night. Dean couldn't blame him for it; he had felt like falling apart himself too and he would have, if his priority hadn't been to keep it together for Sam.

Control, he thought, that was the key. He had to keep a tight control of himself and his emotions, so that he could deal with Sam's now. It was better that way because if both of them lost it at the same time, there would be no fixing and Dean knew that too well. Both Heaven and Hell had proved to them that slipping meant doom, no matter if they tried to do the right thing, or believed they were following the right person.

Unfortunately, Sam had learned that lesson too, and in the most terrible way possible. Dean closed his eyes, moved still by the phantom sensation of his little brother coming apart at the seams, in a way he hadn't allowed himself to after Jessica, or John, or any other tragedy they had faced in their short life. At least, as far as Dean knew, since he couldn't imagine how Sam had been when he was… gone.

Quiet, Bobby had said, and it made sort of sense, although at the same time it didn't. Because Sam was never quiet, he was a born talker, but Dean had witnessed in first person how much Sam had changed in the last months. Withdrawn, distant, closed off. He couldn't pin down when exactly it had started, but he still felt guilty about it, as if it had been his fault for leaving Sam first, and not coming back right in the second place.

All in all, it wasn't particularly strange then that he didn't hear Sam right away. However, when he looked across the other bed and found it empty, his heart lodged in his throat. Dean sat up on the bed at once, and the sheets slipped down his naked torso as the hand he had kept against the pit of his stomach clenched into a fist.

"Sam?" He called out.

The sharp pang of fear and anticipation when he couldn't find his brother was awfully familiar, just like that of waking up disoriented in another anonym place. So he forced himself to do the same thing, breathe deep, and take stock. Count to five...

A move to his left caught his attention and he turned around so fast his exhausted vision swam. Finally, he saw Sam on the floor. He was crammed in the corner next to Dean's bed, the closest to the door, with his arms around his knees and his gaze low.

"Hey," Dean breathed out, too relieved to do anything else.

The younger looked up at him wearily, eyes flickering over his right shoulder for a fleeting second, before looking down again. Dean frowned and tilted his head to look questioningly at Sam.

"You-" Dean started with a rough voice. He cleared his throat before continuing, "You alright?"

A silent, tight nod was his brother's only response. Dean's frown deepened, unsure of what was wrong other than, of course, everything in their lives, let alone the order of the universe. A glance at the clock on the bedside table said it was 4:36 AM and even as Dean started to move towards Sam, he felt the pull of bone-deep exhaustion weighting every single cell of his body and his throat knotted on its own accord. God help him, he had thought, What now? And he was immediately ashamed of his own, betrayer subconscious. He was so damn tired of the emotional hole their lives had been turned into that if he had been alone, he would had curled back to bed and simply cried until dawn broke.

C'mon, Dean, you can do this.

Cautiously, the older brother extricated himself from the bed covers and padded the few feet that separated the edge of his bed from his brother's hunched form. Sam raised his eyes briefly when Dean towered over him and the older brother swallowed hard at the intensity of his brother's anguish, clear in the hazel depths. He had hoped that the worst was behind them already, that the previous nigh Sam had let it all out. Sure, why not? A guy can hope.

As if he didn't know better.

Slowly, Dean slid down the wall to the floor, sat next to Sam and looked ahead with his head against the wall. Despite the absence of any immediate danger, Dean's heart was still beating a little too fast and the misery that Sam radiated was making his stomach churn. The pull he felt towards his brother, though, was stronger than any discomfort and the need to ease Sam's suffering was the only real thing he felt able to grab onto. It was natural for Dean, definitely more natural than worrying about angels and demons and the end of the world.

"Nightmare?" He questioned gently.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam shaking his head. Dean chewed on his bottom lip and glanced around the room, while he thought of something else to say. Sam's empty bed on the other side didn't seem particularly tangled up and the night was quiet, even calm. If something had woken Sam up, it should have woken him up too. So, although he had been sure he had left his brother exhausted enough to fall asleep a few hours before, now he was starting to wonder if he had slept at all. He rolled his shoulders and brushed his little brother's arm with his, eliciting a little gasp from Sam. The younger was trembling subtly under the T-shirt he was wearing. Little shivers that Dean wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been so close.

"Are you cold?"

Sam's Adam's apple bobbled and he shrugged, but his arms tightened around his knees unconsciously and Dean stared at him, wishing with all he had in him to understand what was going on inside his brother's head. He missed that connection between them, how even if they refused to share their feelings, the other understood them anyway. Although their bond had never disappeared completely, it had been strained beyond limits and without it, Dean felt lost. If Sam wasn't there to know Dean, then no one would.

"Sam?"

The younger licked his lips and gazed at the opposite corner for a few seconds, with his jaw set. Then he met Dean's eyes ruefully and exhaled slowly, as if it took a lot from him to keep his own breathing under control. Dean narrowed his eyes on him when he realized that Sam was not only shivering, but also sweating, and his worry sky-rocketed.

"Sammy, what-?"

And then it hit him, the last time he had seen his brother like that.

"It's the blood, isn't it?" Dean whispered.

Sam's slightly blown pupils shone in shame. It was clear to Dean that he didn't want to admit it, but he didn't have to. He looked like hell, shaky, clammy... He looked like a damn junkie, as painful as it was to admit it. Dean schooled his features and breathed out, clapped Sam's knee and, ignoring his instinctive flinch, he squeezed it firmly in a useless attempt to quell the tremors that spoke of frustration. Of remorse. Sam stared at his brother's hand where it connected them both for a long time, as if the brotherly gesture escaped his flickering comprehension. It made Dean want to squeeze him even harder.

Don't you doubt me, Sam. Don't you ever doubt me.

Soon, the younger seemed distracted again and clenched his teeth so hard that Dean's own jaw hurt in response. Something in Sam's demeanour was off, and it wasn't only the conflicted emotions over having Dean holding on to him. It wasn't even the signs of withdrawal.

"You're seeing something, aren't you?" Dean guessed in a low voice.

Sam guilty jump confirmed that he was right and Dean felt sick to his stomach when he remembered Sam's broken cries down in Bobby's panic room. All those conversations he had thought he was having had ended up with his little brother crying or yelling his throat out, while his big brother had to wait outside against all that made him Dean. It was devastating. The older still heard him crying every time he closed his eyes and felt the phantom tension in his muscles that begged to go to him and stop that torture. So yeah, hallucinations had been a symptom before, they just hadn't come so soon and Dean hadn't foreseen them either because he had expected them later or because he didn't think he was strong enough to go through the same thing again.

However, Dean thought, wasting Lilith had taken a lot from Sam and it had probably dried him out, or he would have finished Ruby himself. Even though he didn't know what Sam was seeing, he knew his brother well enough to know that it was all Sam could do to repress his fight or flight response. Judging by his position and his body language, Dean thought he also had an idea of where the hallucination was. The older gazed again into the emptiness of the corner exactly opposite to where they were seated, the one that would have been closer to his brother's bed, and squeezed Sam's knee again as the spoke in order to ground them both.

"What are you seeing, Sam?"

He sensed Sam stiffen up; he saw his chin tremble. Defensive and vulnerable. It made Dean stronger; surer, somehow. Because he didn't know how to treat Sam when he didn't let him in, but he did know how to step up when his little brother needed him.

"It's over there, right?" Dean tilted his head towards the dark corner. "What is it?"

Sam looked down, tears pooling in his eyes. Still, he refused to shed them. He had cried enough for ten lives a few hours ago, and now that he had some measure of control back, he was stubborn and strong enough to contain them. As a matter of fact, Sam was the strongest person Dean knew and he was proud of him. If he thought that he had brought that pain over himself, he wasn't going to cry for it, not while he had any strength left. Therefore, seeing him barely holding it together meant that it had to be bad.

"It's Ruby." Sam croaked without raising his head.

"Ruby." Dean repeated.

With a target to aim all his frustration and pain at, hot, blind rage surged through the older hunter, and he had to clench his teeth to keep it controlled. He hated Ruby, that lying, manipulative bitch, with a passion. She had played with Sam, used his little brother's feelings from the very beginning, two years ago when she got into their lives claiming the she could help Dean escape Hell. She had given him hope, and then she had crashed it. She had saved his life, and then turned it into a nightmare. Honestly? Even knowing what he knew now, Dean would have gladly gone to Hell one year earlier if that would have helped prevent all this, by not giving her the chance to get close to Sam.

"What's she doing?" He asked flatly, in order to avoid his fury to spill into his tone.

Sam seemed to pick on it, probably thought it was directed to him and he didn't answer, but pursed his lips and fixed his eyes on Dean's hand again, as if he was trying to reconcile the warmth of his brother's grip and the deadly coldness of his tone. Dean forced himself to relax, aware that Sam didn't need him flipping out on top of everything right now.

"Sammy?"

"She's not doing anything," Sam said miserably, "She's just there...looking at me and..."

Sam trailed off, licked his lips and rubbed a hand against his temples. His breath was getting shallower and when he tried to pull air it stuttered inside his lungs and a grunt escaped him. Dean could only stare at him helplessly as Sam bent forwards and fought to find the strength to pull in oxygen. Unconsciously, his free hand found his little brother's forearm and curled loosely around the trembling biceps, while Sam got hold of Dean's hand over his knee and squeezed hard.

Yeah, Sammy. I'm here. I'm here and I'm not going anywhere.

"And what?" He pushed gently, when Sam seemed to recover a bit.

The younger murmured his answer, without opening his eyes.

"She's sliced her wrists and she's... Bleeding. Just bleeding while she looks at me."

Ouch.

If Dean had thought that he couldn't hate Ruby more than the previous night, he had been wrong. Not only she had ruined his brother's life while she was around, now she had to come back and torture him too?

"But I know it's not real." Sam offered shakily. "She's not real," he repeated with a sad, self-derisive smile.

Of course, Dean knew it wasn't Ruby, as much as his desire to rip her apart didn't lessen. Sam was doing that to himself, his mind had conjured a poisoned oasis mirage in the first stages of the thirst and he punished himself with the sight of the creature that had deceived him and turned him into his worst fear. Also, the creature that had helped him carry on when he was lost, that had gave him purpose. The woman that maybe he had even loved in some way that had nothing to do with feelings, but with bare need.

The monster he had helped kill.

Dean swallowed around the lump in his throat. He didn't know how Sam felt about Ruby, because he hadn't asked. They never asked that kind of stuff and after all what had happened it had become a whole new level of taboo between them.

"Would you want her to be?" Dean asked in a low voice.

Sam's brow furrowed as he looked at Dean in confusion, but Dean just stared back, waiting for an answer. He couldn't think of a single reason why Sam would regret to have killed Ruby, other than precisely, the thirst. They hadn't had time to think how to deal with that and it was obvious now that it was a problem that wasn't going to vanish just like that. What Dean needed to know, what he feared to find out, was how willing Sam was to stop drinking demon blood.

"W-what? No..." He shook his head, "No, I…" Sam gulped. "Dean, I'd rather die."

Dean closed his eyes with a silent thank you and shook his head immediately and with fierce certainty.

"No one's dying here, Sammy," he whispered.

It was going to be hard and it was going to hurt, but they couldn't afford losing hope now. If they didn't believe they could make it, and they were going to make it, they could as well eat their guns right now.

"Okay?" Dean pushed.

Sam bit his lip and just stared at him, eyes wide and young and broken, saying sorry and I'm dying right now, but Dean held his gaze sternly and deep inside, just as desperate.

Please, little brother. Stay with me.

Sam looked down for a split second, muscles trembling under Dean's grip, and then the offending corner seemed to catch his attention, but the older Winchester gave him a slight shake to get his focus back to him.

"Hey, look at me." He ordered, breathing out only when Sam obeyed, "Okay?" He insisted on his previous question.

Sam blinked at him for a few agonizing seconds longer and finally he gave a slight nod, almost imperceptible.

"Yeah," he muttered, "Okay."

Dean didn't stop a relieved smile to blossom on his lips and he let Sam see it, eliciting a brief, exhausted eye roll from his little brother.

"You should try to get some rest." Dean suggested.

His brother looked like shit and probably lying down wouldn't help much, but it sure beat sitting on the hard, cold floor as a shivering mess. Sam, however, shook his head vehemently.

"No."

"Sam-"

"No," The younger repeated, eyeing his bed.

Dean followed his gaze and finally thought he understood. Ruby was by Sam's bed, as she must have been so often before. Probably, where she had been minutes before Dean had appeared unexpectedly at the doorstep when he had returned from the dead. The older repressed a shiver at the thought.

"Do you… Do you want to sleep in my bed?" Dean ventured.

It was an honest question, but it must have come out wrong, because the way Sam glared at him from under sweaty bangs spoke of annoyance despite his haggard looks. It warmed Dean a bit deep inside, this piece of his Sammy, and he couldn't help but adding, "I promise I won't tease you too much for it."

Sam snorted a laugh and leaned his head back against the wall. Dean's smile widened, and then died away as he mimicked his brother's posture. Sam hadn't totally let go of him yet, but switched his grip to Dean's sleeve, which he tugged at nervously. Dean let him, wishing it was did some good. Sam had never been clingy, but with all his defenses destroyed, his big brother had become his last line. Besides, in the last hours he seemed to have developed some kind of irrational fear that Dean would leave him, apparently by the time he had finally understood that he wasn't going to kill him. Even when Dean had convinced him to try to get some sleep, Sam had seemed unable to let him out of his sight until his eyes slipped closed.

"It's going to get bad, right?" Sam said breathily.

Dean felt his stomach drop. He wasn't sure of how much Sam remembered from the panic room once he had started losing it, but bad didn't begin to cover it. It was going to get worse than bad; it was going to get goddammed awful and Dean would gladly rip his own veins open and let Sam drink from them if that could help him.

"Yeah," Dean said in quiet honesty, then he looked at Sam, but the younger was blinking at the ceiling.

"We have to go to Bobby's," he mumbled. "I could be dangerous here."

"I'm not locking you up again." Dean refused.

"I don't want to hurt you, Dean." Sam said firmly, "I don't- I can't keep hurting you…"

"You won't." Dean assured.

"How can you be so sure?"

"I just am."

"No. Don't do this." Sam gritted.

"Do what?"

"Don't forgive me so easily, don't... You should be mad at me!"

"Do you want me to be mad at you?"

"Yes! Because I don't deserve this!" Sam yelled, "Because I was an idiot and I lied to you and betrayed you and brought the damn apocalypse on Earth!"

Dean flinched internally at the naked rage in his brother's voice, and felt his own guilt building up in his gut. It wasn't a conversation to have in that moment, not when everything was so recent and most especially not when Sam was in that condition. Dean himself wasn't ready to talk about it, because hearing Sam charging so hard against himself was eating at his own barriers so fast that his head spun.

Sam was right, somehow, but he was also oh, so wrong. It hadn't been his fault, not like that. If Dean could have focused on what needed to be said, he'd tell Sam who had betrayed who. Who had followed a stranger's orders against his own gut; who hadn't listened. Who, when it had all come down and Sam had asked, begged him to go with him and simply Trust me, please, just trust me had said no.

"Don't say that, Sam." Dean pleaded, with a light shake of his head.

"You can't deny it, Dean." Sam said stubbornly, "I started this."

"No," Dean croaked, "I did."

It wasn't Dean's usual chevalier attitude or his big brother instinct to shoulder everything to protect Sam. It was the plain truth, one that he hadn't planned to say, until the words had tumbled from his lips in a cracked voice that sounded foreign and detached even to his own ears. A flutter of panic seized his stomach when Sam dragged blood-shot eyes in his direction and looked through him as no one else could. Dean breathed in and forced himself to keep their eyes locked even if he felt naked under his brother's gaze. For the longest of seconds he couldn't speak, as if all his capacity to form words had been limited at the scared voice inside his head yelling No, no, no.

"What?" Sam rasped.

Dean pulled away then, tried to rebuild his Sammy-proof wall to make up for the cracks in its very foundations since age four, but Hell images were flooding in as a destructive torrent and he shook under their vivid force. The heat of fire together with the sickening noise of cracking bones, sliced flesh and blood, blood everywhere, blood on his hands...

Jesus, what have I done?

What was he doing? He couldn't tell Sam! It had been bad enough when he had told him about the monster he had become down there and the way Sam had looked at him, compassionate, but somehow detached, as the "new Sam" had taken to look at him this last year, had broken him even worse. His little brother would not forgive him for this. His little brother should not forgive him for this. And yet, looking into his eyes now, Dean realized that he couldn't keep it from Sam anymore.

He deserved to know.

"I broke the first seal," he said, for the first time aloud.

Sam's eyes widened fractionally, but he said nothing. The lack of reaction made Dean's heart pound even harder and his next words tumbled shakily from his lips.

"And it was written that the first seal will be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell. And as he breaks so shall it break'." He quoted, and then shook his head in disgust, "It was supposed to be Dad...but he held on... He was there for 100 years and didn't cave and it only took thirty to-"

"But how...?" Sam chimed in, voice weak and confused. "How do you know?"

"Alistair told me." Dean swallowed hard, "When I...When I tried to break him at the warehouse."

"Demons lie." Sam spat venomously.

Dean had to huff a disheartened laugh at that.

"Castiel confirmed it." He said quietly, finally averting his eyes. "Which... Doesn't mean that angels lie any less…"

"Dean?"

The older Winchester looked at his brother again and startled when Sam reached out and grabbed his elbow weakly.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sam mustered.

Seriously?

Dean closed his eyes and laughed again. Sam had sounded hurt and the funny thing was that Dean understood why, how could he not? Sam must have caught the irony of his question, because he looked back to the floor with a rueful gaze before scrubbing his face and leaning back against the wall.

"I didn't tell you..." Dean whispered, without opening his eyes, "because I was ashamed. I didn't tell you because I wanted to fix it first. I wanted to fix it so badly, Sammy. And Cas... He was giving me a way to end it. He was finding some sort of sense to the thing I had become. To the things I had done... He was saying follow me and it will had been for a reason. I just wanted to leave you out of the mess. I wanted to protect you. I had to do it by myself... because it was all my fault."

A minute of silence stretched between the two, heavy, charged, and interrupted only by Sam's uneven breathing. Dean, whose stomach was making all kind of flip-flops after his confession, knotted even tighter at the distressed sound. That was it, Dean thought. That was all he had. He has just confessed he had detonated the end of the world and it was up to Sam to decide whether there was hope for him or not.

Funny, how it always had been Sam's choice.

"It wasn't your fault." Sam finally spoke.

Dean turned to him and found his brother's hazel eyes fixed earnestly on him. Not a single shadow of doubt marred his certainty and his tone had been unwavering. Dean let out the breath he was holding and felt the next intake hitch inside his chest. He hadn't realized how scared he had been of Sam's reaction, how bad he had needed his forgiveness even if he couldn't ask for it. And there Sam was, refusing to blame him in the first place.

"Dean, you didn't know." The younger pressed.

Because if Dean had known... Sam was absolutely sure that Dean wouldn't have broken. He would have taken all they threw at him, maybe not with a smile on his face, maybe not with defiance in his gaze. Maybe with pained grunts, and teary eyes and loud, blood-curling yells but he would have taken it.

At least, that was what Sam must think, right? Dean smiled sadly and shook his head.

"Well, neither did you." He whispered.

Sam frowned, and his expression shifted as Dean drove his point home. But the older sibling needed Sam to get it once and for all. If Sam had known, he wouldn't have listened to Ruby, but killed the bitch right away. No matter how far gone into the blood haze he was, no matter how far his need of revenge went. Sam had only wanted to save them all, even if it meant damning himself.

"It's not the same." Sam denied.

"You're right," The older nodded, "I was torturing souls for ten years. You...you killed a demon. The one that put me in there, by the way."

"No, you don't get it!" The younger said brokenly.

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, Sam. I really do."

Sam was about to reply to that, he even opened his lips, clearly ready to protest, but he remained silent. His chin trembled and he set his jaw, trying to control the emotions that bubbled inside of him. He run both hands through his dishevelled hair, stalling a few moments at the back of his neck with his head bowed, and then his shoulders sagged a little.

"We good, Sammy?" Dean asked, hesitantly, because it wasn't him who usually asked that kind of question.

The younger gave a soft snort, looking at Dean with such adoration in his eyes that Dean was reminded of the day he had returned from Hell, when Sam could only hold him with all his might, at a loss for words. Like that Wednesday, when Dean had stopped dying over and over again on him after finding the trickster. Like every other time they found each other after believing for too long that they had lost their other half. It was obvious that Sam still didn't think he deserved to be let out of the hook that easily, but then, neither did Dean. It was just what they did for each other all the time. As much as they blamed themselves and as much as, at the end of the day, they were guilty or not, the other would always be in their corner.

"Yeah." Sam breathed, "Yeah, we're good."

The world was pretty much fucked up, but Dean smiled. He smiled for real for the first time in months.

"Good." The older replied.

Sam's lips tugged up weakly and then the smile fell and his gaze grew distant.

"God, Dean. I need..." Sam shut his eyes tight and trailed off. Dean kept his eyes on the floor. "C-Can you...Could you give me some water?"

"Sure." Dean nodded immediately. Dean used the wall for support and stood up. A minute later he was back by Sam's side with a glass of water. "Here."

Sam startled a bit, as if he hadn't seen Dean coming back or he had forgotten about the water in the scarce seconds that had passed since he had asked for it. Dean's worry increased when Sam took the glass and his hands trembled so bad he almost couldn't drink from it. He reached out to help him, but Sam shook his head tersely, refusing his help. Dean could only sit back down on his bed, facing Sam and chewing of his own helplessness. After a bit greedy gulps, Sam stilled and pressed the cool glass against his forehead.

"Dammit." He muttered.

Dean didn't say anything, aware of how hard Sam was gripping the glass and how thin the line they were walking was. Sam didn't want water. Sam didn't need water, because the stupid water wasn't helping with his brother's thirst and nothing would. If Dean had thought he felt frustrated, he couldn't imagine how Sam was possibly feeling.

"Go away." Sam said.

Dean flinched a bit.

"Sam?"

"Go away!" The younger repeated, with a tone full of barely contained rage.

The older threw a wary look at the corner all the fire in Sam's gaze was aimed at and leaned closer to him.

"Sammy..."

"GO AWAY!" His sibling yelled.

The outburst caught Dean by surprise and he wasn't fast enough to stop Sam when he jumped to his feet and threw the glass against the corner with a roar. The momentum passed and Sam swayed dangerously even as the echo of the crash still reverberated in the air.

"Hey hey hey…" Dean reached out for him and grabbed his elbow.

Sam yanked his arm away and tried to launch himself to the emptiness but his legs buckled and he would have ended up on the floor if Dean hadn't recovered and appeared before him to keep him upright.

"No," Sam struggled feverishly, alternatively pulling and pushing at the barrier his brother had become. "Let me go."

Dean steeled himself against his brother's pleas and desperate fight and held him tighter, using his whole body to restrain him.

"It's not real, remember? You said it yourself, it's not real, Sam." Dean whispered into Sam's ear, "Come on...Come, on, man."

It seemed like forever until Sam's delirium subsided and he sagged in his brother's arms. All the strength he had previously used to try and pry himself free was used now to hang onto Dean as if he was his lifeline, the only solid thing amongst chaos. Dean grunted and shifted his own weight to balance them both. He could feel Sam's erratic breathing against his own chest and his pulse run like mad to keep up with it. His little brother was burning up and Dean almost felt overwhelmed by the knowledge that the withdrawal had just started.

"You okay? Is she doing anything now?" Dean questioned

"No, she- she's gone," Sam whimpered, as if it hit him just now and it hurt more than anything else in the world. "Dean?"

"I'm here." Dean soothed, trying hard not to give away the tears clotting in his voice, "Right here."

"Dean...I can't..." Sam shivered in his hold, despite the heat he was radiating, "I- I need... Fuck, I need..."

Dean readjusted his grip again, but Sam was getting heavier as his own legs gave under him.

"You need to sit down." Dean completed for him. Yeah, denial was good. "Come on, help me out here."

Dean pulled away just enough to put Sam's arm over his shoulders and stumble drunkenly with him to his bed, as far away from where Ruby's hallucination had been as possible, just in case she came back.

Fucking bitch.

It was also enough to see that Sam was pale as a ghost, and his eyes were glazed. When Dean finally managed to get him sitting on the bed, Sam swayed as if he had lost all sense of where was up and where down.

"I'll bring you more water." Dean offered, watching as Sam licked his lips dizzily.

However, Sam captured his wrist right away and with such a tight grip that Dean's bones protested.

"Sam?"

Sam only shook his head, eyes wide and pleading.

Don't go.

"I don't...n-no water." Sam replied, words slightly slurry at the edges. "I just...I-" Sam pursed his lips, struggling to make sense of his jumbled thoughts and the pulsing, contaminated urge that was slowly taking hold. "I just want to sleep." He added wistfully, "Just sleep."

Dean took a deep breath and spared a second to wipe at his eyes roughly, just to make sure. Sleep sounded good, yeah, although it was what was behind of Sam's wish what made his stomach curl, because he recognized it too well. It was the wish to succumb...and never wake up. Sam wasn't going to give up, Dean was sure of it, especially after their conversation of the night before and not while Lucifer was still around. But right now? Sam was too screwed up.

So first things first: take care of Sam, then take care of the world.

"Lie down then." Dean said thickly.

"But...We need to go to Bobby's."

Dean nodded, because even if he'd prefer to deal with Sam alone, he knew it was for the best. Soon it wouldn't be a matter of comforting Sam or coax him to drink some water. Soon it wouldn't be a matter or will or strength. It wouldn't be Sam vs. the blood, because the blood would be frigging flinging him against the walls and Sam would be too out of it to fight it back in any way.

"And we'll go. Just try to get some rest first?"

Sam looked at him solemnly from under long, sweaty bangs for a long while and Dean crouched so that he was at eye level with him.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You think I'm going to make it?"

Dean felt his insides go cold, and then shatter in millions of pieces.

At least he dies human!

"You better," Dean said roughly.

'Cause if you don't I'll follow right behind.

It went unsaid, but Sam pursed his lips and looked straight to Dean as if he had heard it loud and clear. Dean brazed himself for Sam's protests on how he should worry more about himself and that he mattered and all the other stuff Sam stubbornly tried to persuade him of in every possible way. However, Sam remained silent and gloomy and Dean felt a diffuse sense of foreboding gripping the pit of his stomach. Finally, the younger spoke, with a voice suddenly clear and incredibly sad.

"I'll be the one to destroy you."

"What?" Dean frowned.

"Eventually, one way or another, I'll be the one to destroy you," Sam repeated. "I know it, Bobby knows it. Hell, Dad knew it. Maybe even Mom..."

"Sam..."

"It's my fate," Sam said firmly. "I get it now. But yours-"

"Sam, there is no such thing as fa-"

"You're going to be a hero. You're going to save the world." Sam gazed into his brother's eyes with such intensity, that it effectively cut Dean off.

Dean sighed and studied his little brother for a couple of seconds. He had said it with such faith that part of Dean ached to believe him. But the only truth there was that Sam had to be delirious and that scared Dean to death. As much as he was determined not to let it show, what he secretly feared was that this would be it. There'll be no stopping the end of the world, especially if it depended on him. God or the angels or whoever had to be wrong, he wasn't strong enough. His father would have been. John was unshakable, determined and unbreakable. Not even Hell had won him over in a hundred years.

He should have been the chosen one and not his poor copy of a son.

And yet there was Sam, so sure that he could still fix everything. That had been the worst part of their last year; the feeling of being mistrusted by Sam, who was suddenly faster, stronger and more determined than the goddammed PSTD'd shadow of a hunter that Dean had become. Having his trust back made him warmer, stronger, even capable of doing whatever it took to honour it, because it mattered to him.

It made him feel like a big brother again, just a little bit ragged at the edges. It was what defined him or at least what he treasured most. As long as he could be Sam's hero, even if it was only a little, he would find purpose to anything life threw at him. So if Sam, or anyone, had really believed that his little brother would be the end of him, they just hadn't understood anything about him or about his fight, at all.

"We'll see about that," Dean said softly. Just not tonight. "Go to sleep, Sam."

The younger held his brother's eyes for a few beats longer, before Dean shoved at Sam's shoulder slightly and he swayed, then resigned himself and let Dean ease him down. Sam immediately curled on his side, keeping his back to where his own bed had been.

Guess you get to sleep in my bed, after all.

Dean hesitated at the foot of the bed. His body was begging him to take the other bed and catch the couple of hours of sleep left until dawn, while his mind forced him to be practical and start packing so that they could leave at the first ray of morning. His heart however, was telling him to sit with Sam and watch over him. When Sam groaned softly and shivered, Dean's instincts overrode anything else.

Oh, fuck it.

The older sibling sat the on bed and shuffled up until his back was against the headboard. Sam, who sensed his change of position, turned slowly to his back, so that his shoulder brushed Dean's hip. His eyes were open and shone in discomfort, but his voice sounded clear, more sober than before.

"Just promise me, Dean."

Dean could feel Sam alive next to him and the immediacy of it was relaxing, so he let his eyes slip shut and pushed his thoughts away, to force his brain to go blank. Yeah, blank was good.

"Promise you what?" Dean asked on autopilot.

"That you'll do what you need to do," Sam said gravely, conveying that he referred both to what had to be done and what Dean needed to do, whatever it was, to make peace with himself and what had happened in Hell.

"I will." Dean promised.

"And that you won't let me stand in your way." The younger finished meaningfully, sleep already claiming him.

Dean shook his head, annoyed despite himself that Sam still insisted on forgetting the most important thing Dean had tried to tell him all this time.

"You still don't get it, do you?"

Dean sighed and turned to Sam. His eyes were already closed and his breathing was easing up. Dean ghosted a hand over Sam's head and settled gently over the side of his neck. Sam frowned a bit, but leaned quietly into the cradling touch.

"My way is your way, Sammy. Either you walk it with me, or we won't walk it at all."

Apocalypse, Day 2

THE END

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Apocalypse, Day 1
Part 1

The light was blinding white, hot and so intense that everything else seemed to fade around them. Lucifer was coming; Sam could sense it. Every cell of his body stirred and vibrated sickeningly in some sort of twisted, happy dance that said Welcome, master.

He knew that the reaction came from the leftovers of the blood and felt sick and lightheaded at the feeling of that double-sided blade he had wanted to use to make things right turning against him inside his veins. Nausea crept up his throat and Sam swayed on his feet, although maybe it was the ground crumbling, in every possible sense of the word. His body pulsed with such intensity that he thought he may explode.

He thought…He thought exploding may not be a bad idea, after all.

If he were honest, Sam hadn't expected to make it out alive and, after Dean had forsaken him, he didn't think he even wanted to. The funny thing was that he had been okay with dying with Lilith, if that meant stopping the Armageddon. He had been okay with disappearing forever if it meant Dean was safe. And as much as it hurt that his brother hated him, he could still hope that maybe, just maybe, Dean would one day remember him as he once had been.

However, he was alive. He had screwed up. And the world was ending.

And Dean?

Dean had come for him. Dean had found him. And Dean definitely wasn't safe, since he was hanging on to him for dear life, trying to reach him through the static in his ears. Why, Sam wasn't sure. If Dean was half the hunter Sam knew he was, he should kill him right now instead of keep him from joining the light. Sam wasn't really scared anymore, since that would entail having some sense of self left; all he could think of was Ruby's voice and Azazel's smirk, chanting You had it in you and Boy King.

Let me fix it…Dean, let me fix it.

He didn't remember clearly how his brother dragged him out of the church; it may have been by sheer force because he was vaguely aware that he was thrashing against him. Dean's voice sounded urgent, but his words were distant, muffled and intermittent as if they were nothing but a figment of Sam's imagination. Sam wished they were, wished please, just let him be at the panic room, trashing feverishly on a thin cot instead of having knocked his long-life friend out, beat his brother, followed Ruby and laid a red carpet for the King of all Demons.

No…No, no no no…

Sam must have been chanting his denial out loud. Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind he thought he heard himself repeating it as everything fell apart on them. Literally. The earth cracked, and the centuries-old stone walls collapsed. The buzz of anticipation fluttering deep in Sam's stomach made him want to scream, to rip his belly open and pull it out. He might have screamed after all, judging by the rawness of his throat. Someone was pushing him and his muscles protested the abuse. Balance had become nothing but a word.

He thought he could hear music. Evil and dark; primal and so, so beautiful.

Turn it off…Please, turn it off.

"Sammy, come on! We have to get out of here!"

Dean…

Yeah, moving sounded like a good idea. But if it was really happening, he needed to stay. If it was all going to burn, he had to be the first to go in flames.

"Sam, move! Snap out of it, dammit! MOVE!"

But not Dean. Never Dean. His hand tightened in his brother's jacket, knowing instinctively that Dean should not be engulfed by the light. Dean's hand covered his wrist, squeezed, then pulled for all he was worth.

Bye master. I know I'll see you soon enough.

oooooooooooOooooooooooo

The first thing Sam remembered was coming to at a motel bathroom he had no clear recollection of how he had gotten to. He was bent over the toilet, dry-heaving, and he hadn't shaken so hard in his life. Sorting out the blurry chaos of his brain wasn't gradual; it rather felt as if he'd woke up after a particularly painful heave and then it all came back with a rush and he groaned and clenched the porcelain bowl tighter to hold himself straight and grounded to reality. His whole body ached in a steady rhythm and his head pounded so hard he couldn't even open his eyes. The fluorescent light wasn't helping; too white on the tiles, as if he had never left the church and the white emptiness had reached him instead.

Is this Hell?

Even his hearing seemed muffled, but little by little sound began to filter in, and thank God, there was no music. Only a voice somewhere in the next room that he recognized right away.

"Yeah…I don't know… I don't know, Bobby!" Dean sounded furious and Sam blinked several times to clear his vision.

Not Hell then.

"Yeah, it was him... That fucking piece of shit, I shouldn't have trusted... Yeah… Yeah, he's here… No, I got him… Bobby, I know, okay? Don't-" A pause then, and Sam realized he wasn't even breathing as he listened, "Sorry… Yes, don't worry. I got to go now, just… Yeah, will do… You too, man."

He heard Dean hang up and then listened to the sound of steps approaching, until they stopped somewhere close and, at the same time, so far away. Sam didn't lift his head; he didn't need to in order to picture Dean standing at the doorstep, arms crossed and critical gaze over him. Maybe a gun in hand, who knew? He didn't look up, because shame had become a solid and sharp weight over his chest and it was all he could to get some air.

"Feelin' better?"

Sam blinked, shocked by the lack of hatred in Dean's voice. His brother sounded worn out, but other than that there was only worry, thick and achingly familiar, lacing his tone. And just like that, Sam felt his eyes blur, burn, and he had to shut them tight.

"Sammy?"

A wet laugh escaped Sam's throat at the use of his nickname and he shook his head, still refusing to look a Dean. The movement made his awareness swim again and his stomach lurched, although he had nothing left inside. Queasy, he pillowed his forehead on his arm and tried to disappear into the little refuge of warmth.

"If you're going to do it, do it now," he said roughly.

His own voice sounded foreign to his ears, empty as if his ribcage was merely a metal shell.

"Do what?" Dean asked

Sam set his jaw and breathed deeply through his nose. It took all he had to raise his gaze and meet Dean's without flinching, but the hardest part was feeling the eye contact break through the walls he had erected to protect himself.

For months, his cocoon of coldness had resisted all attacks, including his brother showing up at his door step, or his confessions about Hell. Even when he had seen Dean on a hospital bed, broken and ready to give up. It had been what Sam had to do, what Dean had always done: be the strong one when the other was down. But he wasn't good at it, not at all. He hadn't been able to balance everything and instead of a rock, he had had to become an iceberg. Dean would never know how his heart had broken for him, one big chunk as a time, as they grew further and further apart. Sometimes it had been just too much..

Like all the times Dean had looked at him as if John had been right.

So Sam had disengaged his heart. He had realized he was changing, He'd had to in order to find Lilith. God, he had been so sure and so wrong at the same time that his mind was still reeling. Sam felt tears coming to his eyes and blinked them back, disgusted at himself. This was his doing; he didn't deserve the relief or crying.

You had it in you the whole time…

He focused on Dean ready to face whatever it was that he had in store for him. As he had guessed, his brother was at the doorstep, arms crossed and expression unreadable. No gun, though.

"Kill me," Sam answered his previous question. Maybe Dean would try to choke him, wouldn't that be poetic? "I won't fight you. Just kill me."

Dean seemed to freeze for the longest of seconds, staring at Sam as if he had grown a second head. Worse than that, as if he didn't know him at all. It was the same way he had looked at him at the motel, when he had finally voiced it: Sam was a monster. Had Dean always known? Then how could he have taken so long to realize it?

After a beat, Dean's eyes went cold and his expression hardened. Sam thought that was it and brazed himself for any sort of blow, but the next thing Dean did was going back to the room without a single glance back. Confused, Sam scrambled to his feet and crashed against the wall when his head swam. He didn't remember feeling this weak in all his life and he swallowed convulsively to clear his vision while rubbed at his bruised shoulder. Slowly, he made his way our of the bathroom, vaguely noting the dull motel room they've landed and wondering if he should pay more attention to it, since it may be the last place he ever saw.

Dean was at one corner, harshly emptying his duffle and throwing items on the bed closest to the door. Sam didn't know what he was looking for and doubted Dean himself did. He only registered the fury in his brother's stance and movements, the ferocious snarl on his lips: at last, Dean was enraged and Sam welcomed it with a bittersweet pain in the pit of his stomach. He advanced towards him, shaking off the slight dizziness that accompanied him. Surprisingly, he wasn't scared; no matter what, he would never be scared of Dean.

"Dean?"

The speed and strength at which Dean lunged towards him and slammed him against the wall had his head spinning. His whole body rattled with the impact and air left his lungs with a whoosh.

"You stupid and selfish SON OF A BITCH!" Dean yelled.

Sam let out a grunt and his hands found Dean's wrists instinctively, although he didn't try to pry them off him. Holding on was enough. It felt like years since the last time he had held Dean and if that was the last thing he felt, he would go gladly with the sensation imprinted in his worthless soul.

"Look at me! Sam, open your goddammed eyes!"

The younger obeyed and blinked his eyes open, to find himself inches from Dean's face. The older Winchester was livid, eyes ablaze and face taut.

"How dare you?" Dean spat, "After all we've been through, you don't get to bail on me!"

"Dean-" Sam tried to placate him.

"What have I done to make you think I could kill you? What part of I'd rather die do you not fucking understand?"

"You said I was a monster, a blood-sucker…" Sam stammered, "You said I was a vampire and that the next time you saw me you'd kill me!"

Dean paled even more and his hands loosened on Sam's arms. He staggered back and let go of him altogether. Immediately, Sam sagged without his support, but his eyes never left Dean, who was shaking his head at him in desolated confusion.

"What?" Dean whispered.

The catch on his brother's voice got to Sam more than his previous fury had and he stared at his big brother in defensive bewilderment.

"Don't do that, Dean." Sam growled, "Don't you deny it now, because I swear..."

"Sammy, when did I say that?"

"Y-you said it…on the phone." Sam cried, "You left a message saying I wasn't your brother anymore!"

Anger was coming out strong now. How could Dean not remember the words that had hurt him so bad? He was willing to admit that his brother had been right. He was ready to pay for what he had done. But did Dean have to lie to him on top of it? Didn't he deserve at least some measure of respect?

"No, I didn't." The older insisted with a frown, "Yes, I left a message, but I was apologizing."

Sam frowned back at him, feeling a flicker of doubt in his gut that made him nauseous all over again.

"No," Sam muttered, stubbornly, "I heard it… I-"

Sam trailed off and felt his heart stuttering tragically inside his lungs. He couldn't deal with this now; there were only so many things he could take at the same time. Dean had to be lying. Perhaps he had simply changed his mind about him; that was certainly more than he could hope. But he had heard the message and it had been the last time he had allowed himself to second-guess his course of action. After that, he had lost all hope to make it out of that church and have his life back in any way that mattered.

"No," Sam repeated.

Sam looked around, located his jacket on the second bed and marched to it. His cell phone was inside his pocket and he retrieved it with shaking hands. His vision was starting to tunnel and his legs felt funny, but he managed to press the buttons and get to his voicemail, holding his breath.

"Hey, it's me, uh- Look, I'll just get right to it. I'm still pissed, and I owe you a serious beat down, but...I shouldn't have said what I said. I'm not Dad. We're brothers, you know, and no matter how bad it gets, that doesn't change..."

Sam's heart stopped dead, his legs buckled and he dropped down on the edge of the bed. He couldn't even blink again until the message ended and by then tears were pooling on his eyes and started to run freely down his cheeks, totally out of his control.

"Oh, God." He whispered, almost to himself, "I heard you calling in the church… I heard you b-but I..."

But he had thought Dean wasn't his brother anymore. He had thought he had come for him just as he had promised on the phone and he had agreed with him. Sam had thought that it would be an honor dying at the hands of Dean. Lilith head was to be his parting present, something to remember him by. But he had been wrong, from the very beginning. The person he was and the goals he was after, all, all wrong.

The cell phone fell from his grasp and clacked against the floor, but Sam barely heard it over his ragged attempts to pull in some oxygen.

Jesus, what have I done?

Before he could react, he felt the sobs catching in his throat, through the numbness of shock and the power of denial, and buried his face in his hands in a futile, last attempt to control them, but they came out hard and uncontrollably through the cracks. Every intake felt like breathing needles and the pain was sharp, inescapable and final, because everybody, everybody, he had ever loved had died—even Dean—and now everybody he knew, could get to know, would have met at some point or even those he would never hear nothing of were going to burn. Everything, everyone, would go in flames in front of his eyes.

For him.

Because of him.

Practically by his hand.

"Sammy."

He sensed his brother coming closer and his crying intensified. He needed Dean to get as far away from him as possible, right the fuck now. Sam was nothing, but a destroying force that shouldn't have been born at all. Every single decision he had taken as an adult had lead to death. Disobeying his father had killed Jess, obeying him had killed John; not killing Jake had killed Sam himself, not listening to Ruby had killed Dean and listening to her had brought Lucifer on them. Someone had to fix what he had done and that would be Dean. It was always Dean. It had to be Dean.

How could I believe her? How could I trust her?

"Shhh, it's alright."

Dean's hand brushed his hair and run to the back of his neck, warm and steady. Sam shivered under the cautious touch, shook his head and tried to back away.

"Whoa, hey." Dean easily stilled him, without breaking the contact. "It's alright now."

Sam shook even harder. It wasn't alright. As a matter of fact, it was the furthest thing possible from alright. Suddenly Sam back at the church, back at the motel room and Cold Oak and every other place he could have chosen differently but didn't. Ruby's voice teased him relentlessly and his whole system went into overload.

It felt like falling, he was falling in every sense a man could fall. Instinct had him reaching out; he gripped his brother's shirt blindly and pulled him in, pressing his face to Dean's chest as hard as he could. He felt Dean's stomach dip and then Dean's hands slowly moved, flexed coming around Sam's shoulders as if surprised by the ferocity of the younger's grip..It felt like forever since Dean had hugged him, probably since he had returned from Hell, although it had been different back then. That first night had been relief, while this time it was the pure, naked release of a little boy falling apart in his hero's arms. Dean didn't say anything at first, just massaged his brother's shoulders while he let him cry against him, but his silence seemed to break Sam even worse.

"I'm sorry, Dean." He sobbed, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry…"

"I know." Dean whispered over his head. "Just calm down now, yeah? It's going to be okay."

It felt good, Dean taking over. Even if his words were empty reassurances, their sound was like magic. They would drown the music, Sam said to himself, they would melt the ice. Sam had to believe him; he had to choose him this time. At that point, Dean was the only reason why he didn't point a gun to his own head.

"We'll fix it, Sam. I promise."

Sam buried himself deeper into his brother's warmth and shamefully let his tears soak the fabric of Dean's shirt. So, that was what he had come down to. Sam Winchester, the hardened hunter who needed no one… Except for a lying demon that had made a boy-toy of him, of course. He laughed against Dean, dangerously close to hysterics, and felt the older Winchester squeeze his shoulders softly as if he sensed how close Sam was from the edge. It was Dean's way to tell him that they weren't moving anytime soon, not until he was ready. He could almost hear Dean in his mind with some "Apocalypse be damned" and if it wasn't tragic, he would have laughed again.

I missed you. I missed you. I missed you, he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs.

God, he had missed him so bad that the ache had become a constant in his life, even after Dean had returned, to the point that he couldn't think around it most of the time. He had been compromised from the start.

"You weren't there." He whispered instead, his words wrapped in so many layers of regret and pain that not even Sam himself knew what he meant.

Apparently Dean understood, because he stiffened and Sam heard his heart faltering under his ear.

"I know," the older said and swallowed hard. "But I'm here now."

It was his own kind of I'm sorry. And it was enough. Because in Sam's eyes, Dean had done nothing wrong and he didn't need an apology. He just needed him now, more than he ever had. Sam felt the sobs catching inside his throat again and knew that trying to repress them would be useless. The edge Dean tried to keep him from was long passed, and appeared as nothing as a blurry shadow in the distance. Sam had fallen.

But Dean had caught him anyway.

It was a matter of pull themselves up now. And Sam was going to make it, damn fucking right. The incapacitating pain of loneliness was already receding and he could work with that.

He just needed a moment first.

oooooooooooOooooooooooo