Author's Notes: I just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone that's reviewed; you have no idea how much that's meant to me. This is the last chapter, so hope everyone likes.

I.

Sam stares at him for half a heartbeat, paying no attention to the road, and then abruptly turns the steering wheel as hard as he can to the right. The Impala spins out of control, one, two, three crazy swoops, and then comes to a sudden, very harsh, abrupt stop. Dean opens his mouth, maybe to accuse Sam of being crazy, maybe to ask what the hell he was thinking and look what could have happened to his car, but he can't say anything. His mouth suddenly feels very dry. Sam's hands are clenched on the steering wheel and Dean worries that he might snap it in half.

Then Sam looks up. And Dean's not so worried about the car anymore.

"You don't what?" Sam asks, and his voice is all wrong. It doesn't sound like Sammy's; it sounds rough, it sounds dangerous. It sounds like a Winchester's, Dean realizes belatedly. And Dean knows that this can not end well.

"You don't what?" Sam asks again, and when Dean doesn't answer, Sam takes him by the shoulders and shakes him around. "You don't WHAT?"

"Sammy, just—"

"You bastard," Sam says, and suddenly Dean's head has cracked the car window as Sam's put a fist to his face. "I waited," Sam says, his voice starting to break. "I sat there and I waited, for days and days. I waited for you to wake up. There wasn't anything else I could do. All my work, all my research—there was nothing, nothing. Do you know how hard that was, just having to sit there and wait, to be completely powerless as I watched you die? I searched so hard for some spell, some miracle, some anyfuckingthing to make you wake up. But you wouldn't, you would,n't and there was nothing I could do. I just had to sit there and pray and wait and wait."

"Sam—" Dean tries. But Sam doesn't let him speak.

"I waited," Sam says. "I need you, Dean. I need you to be alive and awake and okay. And you did wake up, only you weren't okay, and I thought I could wait—I could wait for that too. But now it's not just a matter of you being okay. I'm worried about you being alive—and you don't care?" Sam's voice has completely lost that dangerous edge; he sounds broken and betrayed, which is infinitely worse. "I need you, Dean, and you don't even care—you don't care if you're alive. You don't want to be alive?

"Christ, Sam," Dean whispers. "I'm not supposed to be alive." And alarm bells are going off, going warning WARNING. You're about to talk about things which ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE SAID. But Dean just can't stop himself, not right now, not anymore, and the words are falling out uncensored from his mouth. "Dad, in the hospital, he—he made some kind of deal—and now, now he's dead, and I can't, I just can't think—"

And man are things fucked up now, like seriously fucked up beyond repair, because in the middle of trying to explain, Dean realizes he's crying. Only it's so much worse than that because it's more than just crying; Dean's sobbing, really, sobbing so hard he can't breathe. Instead, he manages harsh gasps of brief, bitter air in between broken words that are almost unintelligible with grief.

"I'm not supposed to be alive—Dad, he—he's supposed to be alive—and he's dead and I'm here, and I can't, I can't—"

But Dean doesn't get to finish because Sam is suddenly holding him in his arms, and Dean is being rocked back and forth like he's the younger brother. This is all wrong, Dean thinks, because he's not supposed to be sobbing like a little girl. He's Dean, he's the strong one, and he's supposed to be unbreakable. This is all wrong because it's his job to take care of Sammy, whether it's from the monsters or the nightmares; it's Dean's job to be the big brother. This is all wrong because no matter what's happening, Sam is never supposed to be responsible; he's never supposed to take care of Dean.

This is all wrong because Dad's never supposed to die, not out of sacrifice, not for him. They're supposed to be a family. This is all wrong because Dean's worked so hard to make things right; they're supposed to have their happy ever after. They're supposed to find a home again.

This is all wrong. This is all wrong.

"It's okay, Dean. It's okay."

But it's not. It's just not.

It'd never be okay.

II.

Dean doesn't remember falling asleep but he must have nodded off sometime, because a minute ago he was in the Impala and now he's lying on his back on a motel bed. He blinks at the air above him and watches it focus into an ugly tangerine ceiling. Looks like Sam picked a winner, he thinks and then remembers to look for Sam.

Sam's sitting on the opposite bed, his huge legs stuffed beneath him. He makes absolutely no pretense at doing anything other than watching his brother. The two stare at each other for a long time, neither speaking in the lackluster lighting. Dean doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what he could say.

Dean can't read the expression on Sam's face, but he figures it some broody combination of pity and anger. He almost wishes the accusations would start; in a way, that'd make things so much easier. If Sam could just come out and say it: You're the reason Dad died. You're the reason I don't have a father. You aren't worth it; you're not fitting. I wish like hell you'd have died instead. But he knows that will never happen, knows that Sam will never admit it. Sam's just not that kind of man. He doesn't have that cruelty in him.

Instead, Sam will try to hide it; he'll try to keep the anger inside, and with each day that passes by, it'll just get worse and worse and worse. Sam will blame Dean and Dean will blame Dean because the truth is that Dean's to blame, and if he wasn't such a coward, he would have told Sam like a man. He would have said, Sam, I killed Dad. You can hate me all you want. You should hate me all you want. Maybe you could kill me—it might help. But Dean couldn't say that because Dean wasn't brave—he could face demons, he could face ghosts, but he didn't want to face that look.

That look that said, How could you do this to me? How could you kill Dad? I want it back the way it was. I hate you for what you've done. He couldn't deal with Sam's hate, silent and repressed as it would undoubtedly be. He couldn't deal with Sam's hate—he was never supposed to know.

But now he did know and Dean almost wishes they could just duke it out right now. But that's not Sammy. Sammy says, "Dean, it wasn't your fault."

Dean laughs, and it tastes of bitterness, old and stale within his mouth. "Yeah," he says, "it is. Dad died to save my worthless ass. What part of that don't you get?"

"The part where you're worthless. You are not worthless, Dean."

And Dean doesn't have much to say to that. So instead he rolls away. Now he's back to looking at the ceiling and by God, is it fucking ugly. He opens his mouth to bitch about it, and what comes out has nothing to do with color. "He should be here," Dean says quietly. "He's supposed to be here."

Dean hears a sigh and a creaking of box springs which means that Sam's stood up and coming towards him. Sure enough, he feels Sam sit down quietly at the edge of the bed near his feet. Dean can feel Sam's eyes on his face but he refuses to look at his brother. He's already had one complete and utter breakdown—that should last him for the next 27 years.

"Dean," Sam says softly. "If Dad did this—"

"He did."

"Then he wouldn't want you to give up. He didn't die so you could die too. Dean, he'd want you to keep living."

"I am living. See, Dean breathing right here."

"No, man, you're surviving, and you're barely surviving at that. You've got to give up some of this guilt. You can't go on like this." Dean doesn't respond and there's a silence punctuated by another one of his brother's customary sighs. "Look, I know how you feel—"

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Mom," Sam says. "And Jess. They died because of me. If I hadn't been born, if I hadn't met Jess—they'd be alive, if not for me. You don't think I know that? You don't think I live with that everyday?"

Dean wants to tell him it's not the same but what would be the point? Sam would just argue and Dean would argue back and it'd become a battle of who was the more guilty. Dean doesn't need that, so instead he says nothing, and after a moment, Sam continues. "But I didn't kill them," Sam says. "I feel guilty as hell. . .but I didn't kill them. It's—it's hard to look at it this way sometimes, but the Demon took them from me. The Demon took both of our parents away. And we are not to blame for that."

Dean shifts uncomfortably on the mattress and hears Sam do the same. "You're my brother, Dean," Sam says, "and I'm not sorry that you're here. I miss Dad. I love Dad. But I'm not sorry that you came back."

Dean knows he should keep his eyes on the ceiling where it's ugly and tangerine and safe, but he finds himself looking at his younger brother, needing to judge the sincerity in his eyes. Because his voice sounded sincere; Sam sounded like he didn't blame Dean at all, but Dean can't believe that, so he looks. He looks. And Sam is staring right back at him, so open and trusting and scared, just like the little boy Dean tried to raise right. Dean wants to say something, maybe something like Thank you for looking at me in the eyes but he can't say anything, and he retreats his gaze back to the ceiling. Still it had been a moment and enough to know that Sam didn't blame him. Sam didn't hate him.

Dean couldn't understand why. But he wouldn't question it. Not now.

Dean quickly glances back at Sam and smirks. His younger brother is lying awkwardly across the foot of the bed, his ridiculously long legs draping halfway across the room. "You know," he says, "for a college boy, you're not very bright."

"What?"

Dean motions to empty space next to him. "Try lying this way, you moron," he says. "That way, your freakish giant body might actually fit on the bed."

Sam laughs at that, not that high, cackle pitch he sometimes does, but a lower, deeper laugh, and it makes Dean smile, at least a little. Sam shifts himself until he's lying on his back next to Dean. Dean goes back to looking at the ceiling and the two are quiet for a long time. Inevitably, it is Sam who breaks the silence.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

The laughter has all but vanished out of Sam's voice; instead, he sounds hesitant, as if walking on already cracking ice. "I need to know you aren't going to do anything stupid."

And Dean knows what Sam means by that, can practically see the images running through his brother's head. Dean with dripping, bloody wrists. Dean pointing a gun at his head. "Dude," Dean says lightly, "when do I not do something stupid?"

Sam won't laugh this time, though. He opens his mouth, and Dean thinks he'll say something like, Come on, man, I'm serious but Sam doesn't say anything like that. Instead, Sam takes a long, shaky breath and says, "I can't do this alone," and Dean's forced to look at his brother again. Sam looks helpless and scared and so very young, and Dean can see the little boy who would eat the last of the cereal but save the toy surprise.

All for his big brother. All for Dean.

"I can't do this alone," Sam repeats, and Dean quirks a small, one-sided smile. "Yes, you can," Dean says, expecting the obvious Yeah, well, I don't want to.

But Sam misses his cue. Sam looks back at Dean, stares him in the eyes, and says, "No. I can't. I can't do this on my own." And Dean hears everything that's behind those words.

Don't leave me.

Don't do it.

(Dean with bloody wrists)

I need you. I need YOU.

(Dean with a gun to his head)

Don't do anything stupid, Dean.

(Dean dead. Dean dead. Dean dead.)

I need you to be okay.

(Dean dead. Dean dead. Dean dead.)

Dean takes his brother's hand. Sam seems startled by the touch but grasps on to it quickly as if it could disappear any second. I can't promise you I'll be okay, Sammy. I don't know if I'll be okay.

But there are other things he can promise. There are other things he can do.

I can't do this on my own.

"I won't leave you, Sammy."

Not ever. Not ever.

"I'll never leave you alone."

-Fin

Okay. . .so. . .that's it. Pleeeeease review and tell me what you think. You're very welcome to tell me that it was an incredible, amazing, SPECTACULAR story. . .but I also like the truth, so if there were things you didn't like, I'd love to hear those too. Ciao.