So this is a story that I've been working on for a few months. It's okay, but I'm just happy to have gotten another story out again. It's been so long. I'm sorry that it's so rushed in the middle; I was excited to finally post it, and that was the last part that I had to write. Also, comment and tell me whether or not I should write a sequel about the aftermath of Sam's time in Hell. Happy reading!

I am my own greatest enemy,

and I am my own biggest fear.

~Unknown

Sam thinks that maybe he can feel himself coming apart slowly, crumbling piece by piece from the inside out, starting with his heart and his lungs.

He leaves the bathroom door unlocked, because Dean is gone anyway and besides, he honestly doesn't care if his brother (or anyone else, really) walks in one him now. It doesn't matter.

He stands with both hands braced against the sink, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and the buttons undone, his bangs hanging limply in front of his face. It's hot in the motel room, hotter than it is outside which is almost strange, and sweat trickles along his hairline and down the back of his neck and the feeling makes him shudder. He doesn't look at the mirror.

Instead he looks at the exposed skin of his forearms, at the straight, neat lines of purplish scars that are still dark after months because for all it's been through and all it's fought against and won, his body has a crap healing mechanism when it comes to the little stuff like cuts made from his own knife by his own practised hand. Sam hasn't cut himself since Cas rid him of the hallucinations. He's had no need.

And he hasn't told Dean, because he knows that if he does his older brother will flip shit or somehow come to the conclusion that the whole fucked up situation is his fault.

Just one more thing you lied to him about, a little voice in the back of his head sneers.

Sam looks up at his reflection then and flinches. The bruises are too prominent, the skin too pale and the angles too sharp. And the eyes. His eyes that are filled with secrets and betrayals and blame. It's his fault. All of it. Mom, Dad, Jess, Bobby, Ellen, Jo. All dead because of him, And Dean. God. How many times has Sam failed him? Well let's go through some of Sammy's greatest hits. Drinkin' demon blood, check. Being in cahoots with Ruby. Not telling me that you lost your soul, or how about runnin' around with Samuel for a year, letting me think you were dead while you were doing all kind of crazy. Those aren't mistakes, Sam. Those are choices!

Sam looks at his reflection then, and he hates it.

By the time Dean comes back, it's kind of late-ish (ten thirty) and Sam feels like he's managed at least some pretence of normal. Dean tosses him a sandwich that doesn't exactly look appetising with all its limp lettuce and squashy, runny tomato before stating, "Found a new hunt—down in Illinois."

"Oh yeah?" Sam says, picking at his sandwich in a way that he hopes makes him look like he's eating it.

"Uh huh." Dean takes a bite of his own cheeseburger, studying his younger brother. "Sounds like the typical somebody-pissed-me-off-so-I'm-gonna-go-on-a-killing-spree kind of poltergeist. You up for it?"

"Sure," Sam agrees, "let's do it." And then he's throwing the picked-apart sandwich away and settling back on his bed with the remote in hand before Dean can ask him something stupid like Are you sure? and Sam's reminded once again that his older brother no longer trusts him.

Dean's gaze follows Sam onto the bed as the older man swallows, watches him flip aimlessly through the channels in a way that makes the younger man want to squirm. Dean doesn't take another bite.

"Can I help you?" Sam snaps when it becomes too much, returning Dean's gaze with a glare. Dean shrugs, and while he continues to eat his burger, he doesn't look away.

"You should eat more," he says finally when the sandwich is almost gone. "You've lost weight."

"Mm," Sam replies. He turns his head because he knows that Dean is right, knows that he's lost weight and should eat more, but he can't do it.

So he just continues flipping through the channels even though there's nothing on that could catch his interest now, and pretends not to feel the weight of Dean's gaze.

Sam's up at five the next morning even though he never really slept, showering (carefully avoiding the mirror) and going out to grab Dean some breakfast and himself some coffee, and by the time he gets back it's six thirty and Dean is just wiping the sleep from his eyes.

"Where'd you go?" he asks drowsily even though he already knows the answer. "Breakfast," Sam replies even though he knows that Dean already knew.

"You get yourself anything?" Dean questions, sitting up. Sam ignores him. He sighs. "Sam—"

"So where're we headed?" Sam interrupts, bringing his coffee to his lips and looking pointedly not at Dean.

The older Winchester huffs out a frustrated breath but drops it because he knows that he won't get through to Sam now. "St. Clair, Illinois."

Sam nods. "What's going on?"

"People keep bleedin' out," says Dean. "Through their ears."

"Oh." Sam blinks in surprise and then laughs, shaking his head. "That's, ah, unfortunate."

"Tell me about it," Dean grumbles as he climbs out of bed and makes his way towards the bathroom. The minute the door closes, Sam braces himself against the top of the TV and sucks in a breath, trying not to freak out because his lungs are suddenly too small to hold any of the oxygen. He furiously wills himself to calm down, even goes so far as to mutter, "Get your shit together, Sam," under his breath but it does no good, and he closes his eyes because suddenly he's really, really scared that the reflection in the screen in front of him will send him into a full-blown panic attack and Dean will come out and see him and—

"Sam?" Dean's voice is alarmed.

Shit, shit, shit. Sam attempts to take another breath, except there's something in his throat that's blocking the air. Goddammit.

"Sam?" Dean repeats, pulling Sam up and around to face him. "What happened?" His eyes search his brother's face and then the rest of his body, checking for injury automatically because that's what he does. It's what he's been trained to do all his life and he isn't going to stop now just because Sam's such a fuck-up.

A choked sound slips past Sam's lips and Dean recognises the problem immediately. "Did you eat anything?" he asks sharply, pulling his little brother to sit on the bed. Sam shakes his head and then leans forward to rest it on his knees. It helps a little.

"Breathe. Breathe, Sammy," Dean says, rubbing soft circles into his back. Sam squeezes his watering eyes shut, turns so that he cheek is resting on his knees now, and then pulls in a feeble breath and holds it.

It's not a good idea.

Because suddenly the alarm in Dean's voice has escalated to panic as he yells, "Sam! Sam, breathe, dammit!" and jerks him upright.

Sam lets out the breath he's been holding and suddenly he can breathe just fine, and Dean's wild expression is quickly morphing into a pissed off one.

It's not a good idea, but it works.

"Don't you ever pull something like that again, you understand me?" Dean growls, standing up.

"Sorry," Sam apologizes weakly. He has the sudden urge to curl up into a ball and have the bed swallow him whole. Dean doesn't reply, doesn't even look at his younger brother as he grabs his duffle and stalks out of the motel, slamming the door behind him, and Sam bites his lip because he's screwed up again.

Dean wills his heartbeat to slow as he sits in the Impala waiting for Sam.

"Stupid kid," he mutters, because his little brother can scare the shit out of him like no one else can and he seems to do it on a regular basis. Dean wonders if he has a schedule. Let's see, how can I give big brother an aneurysm today?

The older Winchester snorts and immediately feels bad because he knows that Sam doesn't do it on purpose no matter how much it may seem like he does. He shouldn't take out his emotions on the guy, but it's like anything Sam does these days is enough to set Dean off. He feels antsy, wired—like a walking time bomb seconds away from blowing. Anger burns hot and acidic in his veins no matter what mood he's in. It's not healthy. For either of them.

After a few minutes Sam ducks into the seat beside him, keeping his head low and avoiding Dean's gaze, and Dean feels a pang of guilt for having yelled at him.

"So, uh." He clears his throat. "What was that?"

Sam glances at him quickly and shrugs. "Just couldn't get enough air, y'know? It happens."

"And holding your breath helps, huh?" The words come out more accusatory than Dean means them to. Sam's hand curls into a fist on his knee.

"'parently." The younger man shifts so that he's more angled towards the window and pulls his arms to wrap around his stomach almost defensively. "Were you planning on going soon?"

Only then does Dean realise that he hasn't even started the car yet. He turns it on and pulls out of the parking lot, getting on to the main road before heading north; out of Arkansas.

It's quiet for a long time. The countryside passes in a blur, and in what seems like a matter of minutes they're stopping for gas a little ways into Missouri.

"You want anything?" Dean asks before he gets out of the car, turning to Sam with one hand on the door handle, ready to open it. Sam, as predicted, shakes his head, still staring broodingly out the window. Dean sighs and lets his annoyance show through the slamming of the car door.

He can't help but feel some resentment towards his younger sibling. After all they'd been through he hadn't cared enough to look for his big brother, or even had the decency to because of everything Dean had done for him. The least Sam can do now is take care of himself so that Dean doesn't have to do that as well.

But that's just how it is with him, isn't it? Dean thinks to himself bitterly as he walks into the convenient store. He's always gotta have something.

A familiar pang of guilt jolts through the older Winchester and he groans and rests his head on the wall that's near the candy aisle. It's not like that. He knows it isn't. Sam is frustrating and confusing and sometimes stupid, but he isn't selfish.

Dean just has to keep reminding himself that.

Sam worries his lower lip between his teeth while he contemplates the current situation. Dean is angry with him again and he doesn't know how to fix it, could try to say sorry but his older brother's heard it so many times by now that he's sick of it, has told Sam so himself. He settles for not saying anything as Dean exits the gas station-store with a few small bags of candy in his hands. The older Winchester tosses Sam some Swedish fish before he climbs back into the car.

"Thanks," Sam says softly. Dean just nods.

He puts the candy in his lap and returns his gaze to the window. It's cloudy and cool out, mid-October, and with enough luck and Dean's speed habits they'll make it to St. Clair before midnight.

Sam rests his head against the cool glass, letting out a soft sigh. The clouds overhead swirl grey and white across the sky and the patterns they create mix and change, dancing in a way that makes Sam think of a play he once went to see when he was still in high school. He smiles sadly at the memory. Things were so simple back then. His smile fades and he closes his eyes, pressing his lips together. Why can't things be that simple now?

Maybe they could be, if you hadn't screwed things up so badly, he thinks to himself.

"—am? Sam! Dude, are you hearing me?"

"Huh?" Sam startles, jerking away from the window as his eyes open to look at Dean, who's glancing between him and the road, his mouth pulled into a frown and that little crease that he always gets when he's uneasy between his eyes. The older Winchester's hand is poised in a way that makes Sam think he might have been snapping in an attempt to get his attention.

"I said your name, like, ten times, Sam," Dean remarks, still giving his little brother side-glances. "You feelin' okay?"

"Fine," Sam assures quickly. "Just lost in thought, I guess."

The look that Dean gives him in response to this says that he doesn't buy it, even though from Sam's perspective it isn't really a lie.

The rest of the drive is fairly uneventful. Sam pays more attention to his brother so that if Dean wants his attention again he'll get it immediately, but Dean doesn't really try to speak to Sam that much, and so mostly Sam is left to his own thoughts. They stop for lunch and then dinner at generic diners, the kind they always go to, both of which Sam eats half of to placate his brother who watches him closely throughout the meal.

They do, as predicted, make it to their destination before midnight. Eleven forty-three, to be exact. Dean showers and changes quickly before falling into bed with a quick, "Goodnight," leaving Sam on his own for the time being. It's probably a good thing too, because his lungs are trying to shrivel up again. Or maybe there just aren't enough pieces left for them to work properly anymore.

Sam strips out of his clothes, turns the shower on as high as it can go; he braces himself against the shower wall beneath the hot spray and tries to breathe as deeply as he can until hyperventilation is no longer an object of impending danger. Then he thinks about all the things he did while Dean was in purgatory and has to repeat the whole process all over again and this time it takes longer because fear is tightening vice-like in his chest. Now more than ever he wishes that he'd never even known what a demon was.

When Dean wakes up, Sam is sitting on his bed with the laptop on his lap and a cup of coffee steaming in his hand. A similar cup sits on the bedside table, waiting for him. He gets up and takes care of what he needs to in the bathroom, puts on his clothes for the day, and then sits on the edge of his own bed before taking the coffee from the nightstand.

"Find anything?" Dean asks, taking a drink from the cup.

"A little bit," Sam replies, squinting at the screen in concentration. "All over the age of twenty-one, all female, and all from the same work."

Dean hums and stands up. "Okay, then. We'll need to talk to some people, then, find out some more information."

Sam nods before following his older brother out to the Impala. "Where should we start?" Dean asks him.

"Let's try Natalie Pinder's house," Sam suggests. "Third one on the main road."

When they get there, Dean takes the lead. He knocks on the door while Sam stands behind him, and when a tired-looking elderly lady opens the door, Dean is the one to say, his voice thick with put-on grief, "Hi. I'm—I'm really sorry to bother you, but we're friends of Natalie's from work and, well... We just wanted to see if we could come in for a minute."

"Of course, dear," the woman says, her eyes going slightly dewy. "Come right in."

Once they're settled in on the couch across from the woman who introduced herself to be Natalie's mother, Sam asked, "So what did they say happened?"

"Oh, the doctors told us that it was a haemorrhage in her brain," Mrs Pinder replies, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "They said that it came on quite suddenly and was too extensive for her to have had any chance of surviving."

Dean opens his mouth to reply, but glances over at his brother as Sam shifted in the seat next to him. The younger man is pale, his breath coming in short, almost silent gasps.

Aw, shit, Dean thinks, feeling worry make his insides tighten—because no matter how angry he might be at the kid, he will never stop worrying about him. Not again.

Apparently, Dean isn't the only one who notices Sam's respiratory distress.

"Are you quite all right, dear?" Mrs Pinder asked, frowning at the younger man with grandmotherly concern.

"Fine, just—I think I need some fresh air," Sam wheezes and lurches off of the couch and out the door. Dean immediately stands and apologises and glances anxiously toward the door that Sam had disappeared through.

"It's perfectly fine, dear," Mrs Pinder says, waving her hand dismissively. "Just make sure you find an inhaler for that poor boy."

"Of course, Mrs Pinder," Dean promises, already moving toward the door, "I will. Thank you for your time."

He finds Sam in the side alley, hunched over and nearly hyperventilating.

"Jesus, Sammy," he breathes. He puts a hesitant hand on his little brother's back and says, because he knows that Sam won't, "Whatever you gotta do, you do it, okay? Just breathe."

The younger man throws him a half-frantic look before closing his eyes and holding his breath. It's only a few seconds before Sam has to release it and begins panting as though he's just run a marathon.

"Sorry," he gasps. Dean just shakes his head and leads his brother to the car.

At the next house they visit, Josiah Mason's house, Dean gets enough information to know both what's been killing people and how to kill it, and when he turns to Sam so that he can affirm his suspicions, he's surprised and slightly annoyed to find his younger brother staring blankly at a spot just above Josiah's roommate's head, his eyes vaguely haunted.

"Sam," Dean snaps. He begins to grow apprehensive once more as the younger man remains unresponsive. "Sam. Hey, Sammy, are you hearin' me?" Still nothing.

"Is he okay?" Josiah's roommate (Kyle, Dean thinks he remembers his name is) asks.

"He just...hasn't been sleeping all that well," Dean explains distractedly. It isn't really a lie.

When he snaps his fingers in front of Sam's face, he does get a reaction—just not one that he'd been expecting, or hoping for, for that matter. Sam jumps and glances around the room like he can't quite remember where he is, mumbling, "What? Huh? Oh, sorry."

Dean sighs and stands, taking hold of Sam's shoulder and hauling him up with him. "Alright, Ace, I thinks it's past time we get you home. Thanks for your time," he adds, addressing Kyle, who just nods.

Dean doesn't say anything on the way to the car, and Sam only asks, "Where are we going?" after he's made a few wrong turns to get to the next victim's house.

"Back to the motel," Dean replies. "You need to go to sleep. I mean it, Sam," he interrupts when the younger man begins to protest. "You're going all Adam Duritz on me. I only need to question a couple more people; I think I pretty much have this figured out. We'll go to the workplace tomorrow and toast this son of a bitch, and then we're taking a break. You definitely could use one."

Dean is satisfied when Sam doesn't protest anymore.

Dean drops him off at the motel room with a commanded, "Sleep, Sam," and Sam knows he should. But when he lies down his brain becomes idle and he begins thinking of all the stupid things he did while Dean was gone, and he's fucking terrified. They're coming for him, soon. He can feel it. It's stupid of him to be afraid, but he can't help it. He locks himself in the bathroom and stares at his reflection in despair. God damn it, what the hell has he done?

He's still in the bathroom when Dean returns. "Sam?" the older brother calls.

"In here," Sam replies weakly through the bathroom door. "I'll be out in a minute."

When he does come out, Dean is standing in front of his bed with his arms crossed and he says, his voice hard, "That was fifteen minutes. Did you sleep at all?"

"A little," Sam lies.

"Damn it, Sam," Dean growls. "You need to go to fucking sleep. You can't be spacing out tomorrow, do you understand? You'll get one of us killed."

"Sorry," Sam murmurs. He drops his gaze.

Dean sighs, and they don't speak for the rest of the night.

They go to the victims' workplace the next day at eleven P.M., when they know that no one will be there. Sam has always been better at picking locks than his older brother, and this time is no different. They're in there in no time. It also takes little time to locate the box of personal effects that Marcus Dunkin had been packed up after he'd been fired—right before he'd killed himself.

Dean is pleased with how smoothly the hunt is going. Of course, it's not to last. Well, it's not so much the hunt going wrong as it is Sam screwing up again, Dean thinks bitterly. He immediately feels bad, but the feeling is gone as he ducks to avoid being concussed by a paperweight flying at his head. He lets loose a string of curses.

"Sam!" he shouts at his brother, who's currently spaced out in the corner, his eyes taking on that haunted look they'd had yesterday. "Shoot it! I can't get to the box!"

Fortunately, Dean's voice gets through more quickly this time, and it only takes Sam a split second to shoot the furious poltergeist. Dean immediately lights the box of belongings on fire, and soon the only things left of the ghost are its screams as it burns.

"Let's get out of here," Dean mutters, turning toward the door.

In the car Dean's anger at his brother simmers down until it has once again turned to concern. Something is clearly wrong with the younger Winchester.

"Sam," he begins, "what's going on with you, huh?"

"I'm fine," Sam responds quickly. He doesn't meet Dean's gaze.

Dean sighs and, deciding that he's too tired for this but resolving that he'll get to the bottom of it tomorrow, leaves Sam alone.

When Sam wakes up in the morning, he's terrified. It's unexplainable, irrational even but he can't make it go away. His hands shake as he takes a shower.

"You okay?" Dean asks when he comes out of the bathroom, looking at him strangely. He just swallows hard and nods before taking two painkillers that he doesn't really need. He hopes they'll calm his nerves. "Got a headache?" Dean asks.

"Yeah," Sam says, and his voice breaks slightly. He clears his throat.

Dean surveys him carefully but says nothing about his younger brother's strange behaviour. Instead, he states, "I was thinking that we could stay here for another day or two, just to, you know, look around."

"Um, okay," Sam agrees even though he's confused because Dean never wants to stay in one place for longer than necessary. He puts his wallet and phone in his pocket. "Were you planning on heading out now?"

"Yeah, actually," Dean replies, and he's already got the motel door open.

"Looking for anything in particular?" Sam hopes Dean doesn't notice the way his voice trembles slightly. They get into the car and Dean shakes his head as he starts it up, the engine rumbling to life.

"Not really," he says, then hesitates, throwing Sam a careful look. "Truth be told, Sam, I think we need a break. You need a break. No offense, but you look like shit, man. When was the last time you've slept? Like, really slept? Or eaten?" And he looks at Sam like he expects him to answer.

Sam flinches because he honestly doesn't know when the last time he slept was, even if he vaguely remembers eating something about two days ago. Dean won't like either answer. He shrugs. So Dean had been serious about the break.

Dean sighs in frustration. "You need to take better care of yourself, Sam," he scolds and sounds really, genuinely worried and big-brotherly, and Sam almost smiles. Almost.

"Sorry," he mumbles. He means it, too—really fucking means it—but when they sit down at the diner for breakfast, dread is churning his stomach so violently he fears getting sick—something along the lines of projectile vomiting—even when there's nothing to expel.

"I really don't feel good," he breathes as he slumps against the booth and puts a hand over his eyes because his head is starting to hurt despite—or maybe because of—the unnecessary medication he had taken earlier.

"You comin' down with something?" Dean asks, and there's that honest-to-god concern again, something that Sam realises has been a constant undertone in his big brother's voice for a long time now. He kind of doesn't understand why it's still there.

"Dunno," Sam answers truthfully, because for all he knows he could be.

Before Dean can say anything else the waitress comes over and says, "Hello, my name is Casey and I'll be your server today. Can I start you guys off with something to drink?"

Sam ends up only ordering a coffee and some fruit and only consuming half of it. Dean frowns but says nothing.

They check out the town thoroughly, find some interesting places ("Seriously, what kind of town has a rec-centre that offers finger-painting classes?" "Obviously some people think they can learn something useful there." "Sam, it's finger-painting.") and all in all it's a good day, but when it's over Sam needs a drink and he needs it now.

"I'm gonna head over to the bar," Sam informs his brother. "You wanna come?"

"Nah, think I'll head back to the motel," Dean replies, studying Sam carefully. Again."You okay to walk back?"

Sam nods, and with a promise that he'll call Dean if he needs him, he leaves.

When Dean gets back to the motel he flops back onto the bed with a sigh and tries to figure out what might be going on with his younger brother. Sam's been acting off for days now, what with the way he locks himself in the bathroom and spaces out and sometimes breathes like all the oxygen in the world isn't enough. Dean lays there for a long, long time, but by the time he gets up to take a shower, he isn't any closer to helping Sam than he had been before.

When he emerges from the bathroom, it's late enough that Dean wonders why Sam isn't back yet. He sits back on the bed, alternating between watching the TV and the clock before he stands and starts to pace, his worry and anger growing with every step. Sam's been gone way too fucking long. The kid doesn't even like to drink.

By the time he resolves to call his brother—he kind of wonders why he didn't just do that in the first place—Sam stumbles through the door, cursing and unsteady and obviously very drunk.

"Where the hell have you—Jesus, Sam," Dean breathes, his eyes tracking slowly down Sam's body. "What happened?"

"Been a'th' bar," Sam slurs like it's obvious. And it kind of is, except he was at the bar for a really long time and Sam isn't usually one for drinking the night away. He struggles to remove his coat. "Got 'nto a lil' fight. S'okay."

"The hell it is," Dean snaps as he takes Sam's coat off for him and pushes his younger brother to sit on the bed. "You look like you went five rounds with Ali."

"Yeah, I hada lil'—" Sam hiccups, "—bit more tah drink 'n they did. There were four of 'em." He holds up five fingers, then on second glance puts one down. "Four."

Dean shakes his head, his brow creasing with worry and the hint of anger. "Why the fuck would you go up against four guys shitfaced? I thought I taught you better." He begins surveying the damage, wincing because the kid is a mess of bruises and Dean is pretty sure at least two of his fingers are broken.

Sam gives something similar to a snort. "Y'should see the other guys. There's s'm money—'n'my pocket. F'r you."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean asks even as he's fishing around in Sam's jacket pocket to pull out a thick wad of bills, and suddenly it all clicks into place. "You were hustling?"

"Yyy—ep," Sam confirms, falling back onto the hard motel mattress. "Playin' pool. Th'others sucked." The younger man laughs, throwing his hands up in front of him. "I won!"

"Yeah, I can see that, Sammy," Dean says, shaking his head and throwing the cash onto the nightstand. "Come on; let's get you cleaned up, huh? You're a mess."

"I c'n do'it," Sam protests, though he makes no move to get up.

"I'm sure you can," Dean mutters. He walks over to the side of the bed. "Let me see that hand of yours. I need to know what's broken."

"S'not broken," Sam says as he lifts his hand.

But it is, three of the fingers, so Dean goes to retrieve the first aid kit and then wraps the broken bones tightly with clean, white gauze and splints them with little, straight pieces of wood (kind of like popsicle sticks) and it's not ideal but it'll do.

"I think I laughed at 'em too much," Sam admits. His words aren't quite so slurred anymore. Dean is kind of surprised by how fast his body is burning off the alcohol.

"You're an idiot," Dean tells him, because he is.

"Maybe," Sam allows.

Dean slides Sam's shirt up, winces because the kid's chest is a nice canvas of black and blue and purple. He begins pressing gently around his ribs to see if anything is broken there, and then something catches his attention.

"Sam, what is this?" He drops his younger brother's shirt before flipping one of Sam's arms over, his eyes drawn to the neat line of straight, white scars that runs almost the length of his forearm.

"'S nothing," Sam says, pulling away from Dean. He sits up and pulls his shirt back over his head. "Just—Lucifer, you know. Pain made 'im go 'way."

"What the hell, Sam?"

Anger suddenly floods through Dean—the anger that always seems so close to the surface nowadays when it comes to his little brother—because no, he doesn't know, didn't know until tonight even though the hallucinations were how fucking long ago and dammit, he thought they were past this.

"So you just thought it would be a good idea to slice yourself up, huh?" he seethes. "And were you planning on telling me about this?"

Sam stands, faces away from him. "No."

Something inside of Dean breaks and he pulls Sam around by one of his shoulders before cracking his fist against his little brother's already abused jaw. He grabs Sam's collar and hauls him upright as he starts to go down.

"No?" he yells. "Fucking no? Is that all you have to say, you stupid, selfish bastard? I thought we were done with this shit!" He shakes Sam harshly as the younger man's head drops. "I thought we were done with the lying and the sneaking around and the keeping things from each other, because that got us so far last time! It got you strung out and running around with a fucking demon and starting the apocalypse and going to Hell, is that not enough for you, Sam? And I went to Purgatory!" He shakes Sam again. "I went to Purgatory, and you didn't look for me!"

"I looked!" Sam yells, suddenly sounding a lot more sober. He grabs Dean's own collar and brings his head up to look Dean in the eye and Dean is almost surprised to see the wetness streaming down his younger brother's face. "I looked everywhere. But you were gone and—and I couldn't take it anymore and I did something stupid, Dean I did something really, really stupid—" Sam drops his head again, gasping around the tears, his hair hanging limply in front of his face.

Just like that, all of Dean's anger is gone and something cold has lodged itself in his gut, and he's having flashbacks of demon blood and Bobby's house and the panic room, but it can't be because he hasn't seen Sam drink any of the stuff, hasn't once woken in the night to find his brother gone out God knows where, and there are no withdrawal symptoms. So he makes his voice as soft as he possibly can when he says, "What did you do, Sam?"

Sam just shakes his head and sobs brokenly. He's still got a tight grip on Dean's collar and Dean is fairly certain that if it weren't for that grip, he'd be on his knees, so he removes his own grasp on the younger man's shirt carefully before he takes Sam's face between his hands and brushes gently at the tears there with the pads of his thumbs.

"Sam, Sammy, look at me." Deans pleads with his brother just as soothingly as he holds him. "I need you to look at me, and I need you to tell me what you did, okay? Okay, Sammy? I promise I won't get mad. I just need you to tell me, alright? Okay? Just tell me."

Sam has just managed to look at Dean with anguished, desperate eyes and stammer out, "I—I—" when a knock at the door makes them both turn their heads. Sam goes a few shades paler, so Dean sits him back down on the bed before he can pass out and then goes to open up.

"Hello." The man on the other side of the door smiles, blinks, and his eyes are black the next time he opens them. "I'm here about a deal."

Slowly, very slowly, Dean's mind puts the horrifying pieces together, and when the puzzle is finished, he feels like he's just been punched in the gut with a brick. He turns to Sam. "You didn't," he says, begs, because it can't be true, there's no way it can be true, Please, God, don't let it be true…

Sam grips his hair with both hands and tries hard not to hyperventilate.

"Oh, but he did," the demon at the door intervenes. He smiles politely when Dean looks at him. "Sammy here sold his soul so that we would find you for him."

"But you didn't find me," Dean protests, and it's a miracle that his voice is steady. "You weren't the ones that got me out of Purgatory."

"We didn't have to get you out," the demon counters, and this time his polite smile is more of a smirk. "There was nothing in the deal stating that we had to bring you back from wherever you were. All we had to do was find you, and then we got little Sammy's soul to play with for as long as you were in Purgatory—after you came back, of course. We knew you would. You Winchesters are like cockroaches."

Dean feels sick. "No. There has to—there has to be some other way."

"I'm afraid not," the demon sighs in mock sympathy. "Sam's soul belongs to us for a year now."

"But—you can't—" It's too much, all too much, and Dean tries desperately to find a loophole or something, anything that can get his brother out of this. He considers killing the demon now—seriously considers it—but knows that it'll only be a matter of time before the next demon shows up and things don't go as nicely as they are at the current moment. If you can consider a demon showing up at their door and asking politely for your little brother's soul things going nicely. "Why didn't you just—just take him as soon as I got back?"

The smile the demon flashes him this time is wicked. "We were planning."

"Oh, Jesus." Dean has just enough time to make it to the bathroom before he really is sick, retching so violently he's surprised he doesn't wreck his throat.

When it's over he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and staggers to his feet, braces himself on the doorframe when he gets there.

"Can I—have a minute?" he asks, and damn that he has to ask anything of a fucking demon, but somehow he doesn't think that demanding something of the demon here for his baby brother's soul will go down well.

"Of course," the demon offers, sweeping his arms wide as if he might give Dean the whole world. "Take all the time you need." With that the demon disappears, shutting the door behind him.

As soon as he—it—is gone Dean's on his knees in front of Sam, taking the younger man's face once again between his hands and forcing him to look Dean in the eye.

"Sammy, Sammy, why?" he pleads. Yeah, he's been angry at his brother. Yeah, he's felt a little betrayed. But Jesus Christ, he doesn't want this. He doesn't want Sam gone. And no matter what the younger man has done to Dean, he could never ever wish Hell upon him.

Sam's got his eyes closed. Dean gives him a firm shake, and they open. "Why didn't you make them bring me back? Why the hell did you make the damned deal in the first place?" And Dean knows that he's being a hypocrite but he doesn't care, because he doesn't have a year to try to find a way out or even say goodbye. This is here, this is now and they both know what goes on in Hell, Dean knows what goes on in Hell and if that's not the worst part he doesn't know what is.

"I had to," Sam chokes out, "I had to know. The angels wouldn't help me. I had to know where you were. And if you were out somewhere having a good time without me, or if you had a family and were happy—if you were in Heaven—I didn't want to take that from you. I needed—I needed you to be happy, Dean." Sam grips one of Dean's sleeves and looks him in the eye. "I need you to be happy."

"Oh, Sammy…"

"And then, when I found out you were in Purgatory," Sam continued, dropping his gaze. "God, Dean, I tried everything. I hit a dog and met Amelia and looked and looked and looked but nothing worked. I couldn't get you out and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Wordlessly, Dean pulls Sam down and grips him tightly. It's awkward with the difference in their elevation: Sam's forehead is pressed against the crook of Dean's neck as he bends to hug back and Dean knows it must be uncomfortable. They stay like that for a long time, though, until Sam pulls back and says, in a voice that shakes slightly, "I have to go now, Dean. I made a deal."

Dean grips Sam's shirt for another minute, unwilling to let go, but then Sam is gently uncurling his fingers and just like that his baby brother is gone.

Dean puts his head in his hands and weeps.

One Year Later

Dean sits on the edge of the hard bed in the grimy motel, sipping a cup of coffee that could just as well be mud for all he can taste and tapping a not-quite-rhythm out on the laptop with his fingertips. He's restless, antsy because he's been in one place for far too long and is starting to think—something he can't afford to do. Not now. Not ever. Because if he thinks, he'll think about how his little brother sold his soul for him in a stupid deal with a demon and has now been in Hell for God knows how long because no matter how hard he tries Dean can't get him the fuck out—he doesn't even know what day of the week it is, hasn't been keeping track because that requires thinking too, he'll think about all the things he said to Sam and all the things he didn't say and—

Dean slams the lid of the laptop down and finishes the mud-coffee off in one swallow, gets up and starts packing his stuff for the next hunt. Hunting doesn't require thinking. Not that kind of thinking, anyway.

A quiet knock on the door halts his movements, and for a minute he considers not answering until the person outside goes away, but then they're knocking again and he sighs before going to open it.

"Can I help y—" Dean freezes, his mouth agape.

"Actually," the demon says, smiling politely, "I think you can." He rests his hand lightly on Sam's shoulder.

End.

Sequel? Comments are seriously like my favourite drug. Seriously.