This is post fourth season finale, so any of the fourth season and possibly before that may be spoiled for you if you keep reading.

This is not meant to be a serious attempt at speculation concerning where the fifth season is going to go. This is my way of getting "new" Supernatural when there is none to be had. And this way, I didn't have to wait for someone else to write it. :D

I'd appreciate knowing what you think, even if you think the whole thing isn't a good idea. This is way out of my zone.

Last Note: I have equal affection for both brothers, and I don't consider one better or worse than the other. And Sam hasn't told Dean about the phone message from Lucifer Rising.

Wrong.

There was no other word that encompassed everything Sam Winchester. Some words described him in part – monster, beast, and evil were a few. But no matter what pretty noun or adjective was given to identify the man, all of them fell under the all-inclusive umbrella of wrong.

He was an aberration and a curse on any and all who knew him. The years had passed and time had proven that to be Sam Winchester was to be flawed, unnatural, bizarre, deficient, repulsive, ugly, warped, deranged, transgressor, erroneous, heretic, perverse.

To be Sam Winchester was to be wrong in all the ways that mattered.

There was no other way for Sam to think of himself. What he had done had to be beyond even the forgiveness of an omnipotent, omnipresent God – there was no way to take back the sins that had rained from Sam like beads of sweat from the forehead of a dying man. He had stamped his soul with the mark of evil, and he had done so willingly. There was no going back.

He had been the keystone to the beginning of the end of the world, the hinge on which everything else hung, and he had played his role to perfection. Now the world would be broken under the death sentence written, signed and sealed by one Sam Winchester.

For that, death was not enough. For that, Hell was no more than a slap on the wrist. There was no conceivable, justified price for him to pay. Nowhere above, on or under the earth was there enough pain to sufficiently punish the youngest Winchester for his crimes.

Unless one got creative.

To punish this transgressor, certain steps had to be taken; to punish this monster, others had to suffer worse than he; to punish this perversion, his heart had to be torn out through his chest and lit on fire.

Sam Winchester had to be cut down for his sins against Heaven and Man.

x.x.x.x.x

God, what have I done?

Sam awoke with a gasp. Cold sweat stung his eyes and his was tongue bitter against his teeth. He tasted blood. He smelled sulfur.

Bringing a large hand to his mouth, he swiped a broad thumb against his bottom lip. It came away red; he had bitten his lip. The sulfur, he knew, was in his head – always in his head. It surged in his veins and swarmed in his brain, blinded his eyes and clogged his ears. It became him like a second skin.

Blinking slowly, Sam focused on the uneven jags of plaster ceiling above him, unwilling to move even to check the time. Every morning he woke up with the same thought – God, what have I done? – and smelled the fire that would consume the world. All because of what he had done and what he had failed to do.

Finally, with a silent exhale of warm breath, Sam turned his head toward the luminescent clock, his cheek scraping against the rough brown pillowcase. The clock was an analogue with a glowing green face and hands that shimmered yellow. For a moment the numbers made no sense to him, having no place in the dark world that had overrun his thoughts. Eventually his mind assembled a reasonable time; it was 4:02 in the morning. He had slept in.

Swallowing a deep groan, Sam rolled to his side and off the bed, his feet hitting the chilled floor with a soft thud. For a moment he was confused, trying to remember what room he'd fallen asleep in. Taking a glance around, he determined that he was in Bobby's second guest room. Every night he would sleep somewhere different, just so he could have a moment of disorientation – to have something to think about other than what he had done.

Once he had curled up in the back of an old junker out in Bobby's yard, unable to go inside to face Dean and Bobby and reminders of how he'd failed again. When he had woken, he had been nearly frozen. He had shaken and coughed, felt like his lungs had swelled and crowded into his stomach and up his throat.

When he'd finally stumbled inside, Dean had nearly hit him he was so angry. Why hadn't Sam taken his phone? What was he thinking? Not even a jacket? Did he know he could have died out there?

He hadn't done that again – it had hurt Dean too much. Instead he rotated through Bobby's house, choosing chairs, couches, floors and sometimes when he wasn't thinking, beds. Last night he had been, for all intents and purposes, drunk. He'd stumbled into the bed without a thought in his head except that he needed sleep. Perhaps it was a sign of improvement that he was beginning to think of his physical needs.

It had been three weeks since the breaking of the 66th seal, Lilith's death and the sealing of Sam's fate. Castiel had advised them to lie low and watch for signs – Sam guessed he was right, and that for them to run around like chickens with their heads lopped off wouldn't do anyone any good.

Running a calloused hand across his eyes, Sam just sat and dug his toes into the grooves of the old wood floorboards, trying not to remember, trying in vain to keep it all out of his head. It was an old tactic, his foolish attempts at denial, and like every other time, it failed him. With a sickening rush, it all came back.

He had felt it, that night – his eyes had changed with the rest of him into the blackest of blacks. What exactly that meant, he didn't yet know. Sam didn't know if he felt different from before – he couldn't feel much of anything at all.

Reminding himself to breathe, Sam padded to his duffel and pulled out clean clothes and a pair of sneakers. When he turned to leave the room, he was arrested by the sight of another body lying beneath the covers of the single bed next to his. It was breathing, so it likely wasn't another hallucination, of which he had had many that first week after... after.

Slowly, he crept closer, his heart picking up speed and thumping softly against his ribs. But he should have known who it would be. Dean's spiky hair peeked out from beneath the comforter, his body angled toward the bed in which Sam had been sleeping.

Emotion wrapped a rope around his throat and nearly strangled him. Sam hated it when Dean did that, when he felt like he had to stick close to the freak to keep him from getting into trouble. If something happened, if he changed in the middle of the night, then there would be someone around to deal with the problem. He hated that Dean had to deal with him, had to watch to make sure Sam didn't hurt anyone else; that he had to help clean up the catastrophe Sam had caused.

Turning sharply, Sam swallowed the jagged knife lodged in his esophagus and moved silently into the hall and then to the bathroom. The tiles were too cold and the lights were too bright, but they reminded Sam that there was still time to fix things, that it wasn't over yet.

It was never over.

Thoughts ran hard and crooked through his head as he showered, stinging his mind like the too hot rain of water on his skin. By the end, he was pink from heat and scrubbing, his flesh stung slightly as he patted himself down with a towel, and he had a pounding headache that he resolutely ignored. The whole cleaning ritual had taken him no more than fifteen minutes, and soon he was on his way downstairs to the library.

Much of his free time was spent researching, burying himself in facts and stories and lore until all he could see was the dance of words across his retinas. Now, though, he had slowed to a more reasonably human pace, mostly at Dean's silent urging. Most times Dean would give him a look that would ask him to slow down, to not overwork himself.

Slowly, Sam was accepting his condemnation and accepting that all that was left to be done was end it once and for all; but he'd tried to end it once before, and look how that turned out. The prospect was terrifying – every action he had taken to do just that had been wrong before, every one of them. And now there was no going back.

He was still waiting for the full consequences of his blood banquet to hit him, but until then he would try not to lose it completely, if only to keep Dean from having to deal with it.

"Late rise today?"

Sam whipped around and almost fell into a fighting stance before he recognized the voice coming from the kitchen. "Bobby."

"Sam."

Brushing his bangs out of his face, the youngest Winchester strode slowly to the table, looking down at the older hunter who reclined in a chair, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee. "Want some?" Bobby inquired.

Sam thought about it and dismissed the idea. "Nah, thanks."

He hadn't had caffeine for months, and was no longer subject to the inevitable addiction that befell most Americans. He's just overcome one addiction, and that was more than enough for him at the moment.

"Hungry?" Bobby asked unnecessarily – both he and Dean always got the same answer from Sam.

"No. I'm fine."

Bobby grunted neutrally, having learned a long time ago that it was best not to push Sam too hard into something he didn't want. But still, he persisted gently. "Need anything else?"

"No, thanks. I was just gonna research for a while. I'll be in the library if Dean—" Sam snapped his jaw shut. If Dean needs me… Dean didn't need him. God, what a laugh.

"I'll let him know."

Sam turned away without a goodbye and made his way to the library, his heart lying heavily atop his other organs, sagging to the bottom of his chest. The smell of the books as he entered the room was a welcome one, and he quickly pulled up a seat and grabbed an old tome he had marked the other day.

He didn't know why he researched anymore; nothing he did could help him repair the damage done by his own stupid hands. But there was nothing else for him to do, no other way to try atoning for his wrongs.

Every day he went into Bobby's library and searched for information, for ways out of their mess, for some advantage over the monster he had unleashed on humanity. Every day he came up with nothing substantial. But still he tried because to give up would be too easy an escape for him.

Today, he believed, would be the same as the other days.

x.x.x.x.x

Dean woke to the smell of coffee and the sluggish drag of knowing that when he opened his eyes, Sam wouldn't be there. He never was, anymore. The guy spent all day researching or running or doing anything and everything he could to keep from going nuts or talking. Then every night he would find a new place to sleep, forcing Dean to have to hunt him down in order to make sure Sam had actually come back.

Once, Sam had gone to sleep outside in the cold and without a jacket. Dean had realized Sam was missing after he'd searched in vain for his most recent sleeping place. He'd called his cell phone and found the damn thing sitting on the kitchen table. After ripping through the house and finding nothing, Dean had been frantic. He went through the auto yard, shouting Sam's name, getting no reply. He'd just gone back into the house to call Bobby to come back from his trip and help, when Sam had practically fallen through the door, shaking with cold. Dean wasn't sure he'd been so relieved or angry in a while– relieved that he hadn't found Sam hurt or… He was just glad to have him back and okay.

Last night Sam had taken a bottle of some liquor or other and went outside for hours. Long after sunset, he returned drunk, tired and far too cold for Dean's taste. He'd tossed the bottle away and trudged into the recesses of the house after asking if there was anything either Bobby or Dean needed from him. With a negative response, Sam had disappeared.

Dean hadn't been able to stay away; while now he always felt a tug toward Sam, however unwelcome at times, the need to be around his brother had been particularly unforgiving last night. He'd tracked Sam to the room their dad used to stay in and found the kid lying on his back, still as death. Unable to see him like that, like at Cold Oak, Dean had thrown a blanket over him and laid down on the other bed. From there he could watch Sam and make sure that nothing came to hurt him, that nothing came to take him away. And to make sure he didn't take off.

With a moan for his stiff back – he hadn't moved all night, not wanting to turn away from Sam and miss the kid leaving in the middle of the night or something – Dean clambered out of bed and toward the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later he joined Bobby at the kitchen table, accepting with a tired nod of thanks the coffee that was shoved at him. The liquid steamed silently in its mug, breathing the energizing scent of the strong drink onto Dean's hands and face. He took a sip and winced as it burned his tongue. He took another.

"You look like death warmed over," Bobby commented as he moved around the kitchen.

Dean grunted. "Thanks, good morning to you, too." Frowning, Dean glanced out the window to see there was only a tinge of orange on the horizon. "Not even sunup," he grumbled, going back to his coffee.

"'Could go back to sleep."

They both knew Dean wouldn't do that, not while Sam was up and around. If Dean was honest with himself, he was afraid that if didn't watch close enough that Sam would up and float away, never to be seen again. Damn dreams.

"You seen Sam?" Dean asked eventually, running one thumb over the glazed handle of his cup.

"Not since he came down 'bout half an hour ago."

"He eat anything?"

Bobby shook his head and took a seat across the table from Dean. "Nope. Didn't even want caffeine."

Dean cursed wearily under his breath and took a large swallow of his drink. His eyes traced the scratches in Bobby's table, noting a few that he remembered making himself. Hope balled small and delicate in his gut when he thought about Sam – he'd started talking a bit more, and he didn't always look so lost, now. That first week, Dean had nearly lost his mind every time he looked at Sam and saw no light in his eyes – nothing but the blank sheen of someone who had given in. Painfully slowly, he was starting to see Sam come back. Though who he was anymore, Dean wasn't always sure he knew.

The scrape of paper against wood interrupted Dean's drifting thoughts. He looked at the manila folder lying near his hands and then up at Bobby, who was watching him with a tired, determined expression on his face. "What?"

"Found you boys a hunt. Nice and easy, so's neither of you loses any important body parts while you're gettin' yourselves together."

"Bobby…"

"Dean, Sam needs this."

If anything could make Dean listen, that was it. Damn it, Bobby.

"I know," he said slowly, quietly, "I just can't…"

Bobby supplied, "Can't stand the thought 'a losing him. I know. But there's only so long you can keep him locked up."

Tensed muscles bounced rapidly along Dean's jaw, outing his fears to his older friend. But he shoved his nightmares away with ruthless force; he could forget them for a while if it was for Sam.

"What's the hunt?" he asked finally.

Ten minutes and a hunt background later, with the last of his coffee gone, Dean rinsed his cup and then marched resolutely toward the library. A hunt would help, he told himself firmly; it would give them something to think about other than how they were doing absolutely nothing to stop whatever hell Lucifer had planned for the planet.

He just hoped Sam would really be up for it.

The library door was open when he reached it. After the first day back when Sam had shut every door behind him, as if trying to hide himself from the world at large, Dean had made sure to open them whenever he went in or out. He wanted Sam where he could see him. Seeming to realize that, Sam had gone with it, much to Dean's relief. Things were strained enough without him having to burst in on Sam when he got worried.

"You decent?" Dean joked lightly as he stepped into the room.

Sam looked up from where he was poring over something or other on his computer. Dean was immediately struck by how…not tired Sam looked. He seemed almost energized for the first time in a very long time. That, and his hair was getting too long. He needed it cut.

"Good read?" Dean asked uncertainly, slightly thrown by the look of near excitement in Sam's eyes.

"What? Oh, yeah, not really. Do you need something?"

"No," Dean responded automatically. Then, with a shake of his head, "Wait, yeah. Bobby's got us a hunt."

"Yeah? Where?"

"Uh, 'bout an hour east of here. Some little town with famous houses or whatever."

Something sparked behind Sam's eyes. "Stockton or Fellburge?"

Dean gave him a look that said how much of a nerd he was to know about houses of all things, but he answered, "Stockton."

"Huh. What's the job?"

"Possible haunting, maybe a vengeful spirit – basic stuff."

"Okay. Gimme a second and I'll grab my bag." Sam shut the computer and began to gather up its cord.

"What, just like that?"

"Yes? Why, what am I supposed to say?" He wound the cord into a loop and set it on top of the PC.

With a neutral shrug, Dean replied, "Dunno, you've just been kind of…" He finished with a vague gesticulation of his hand.

The shaggy brown head dropped slightly and a shade quickly pulled over Sam's eyes. "Yeah, I know. But if I'm gonna have a chance at fixing what I did…"

"Sam," Dean started.

"I've gotta do something."

A small tongue of anger licked at Dean, leaving a wet trail of frustration in its wake. He didn't miss the camouflaged reasoning behind Sam's easy acquiescence to the job. "You mean you've got to be out where any one of those bastards can find you." Or you can find them.

Sam looked away, his jaw working slowly, as though carefully chewing and feeling out the words he was about to say. Finally, in a voice almost too soft to hear, "Would that be such a bad thing?"

Dean snapped. "Yes! Damn it Sam, yes."

Again in that quiet voice, "I'm not looking to get myself killed Dean…"

"Coulda fooled me."

"…I'm just – it's just taking me time to – to deal with this. I just need some time."

And Dean got that, he really did, but what he didn't want to happen was his brother deciding halfway through his 'dealing time' that the world had seen enough of Sam Winchester - from what Dean had gathered, Sam had been on a serious kamikaze mission those four months Dean had been gone. A repeat was something he was hoping to avoid.

"That's fine – great, I understand. But you've gotta come to me if stuff… you have to let me know if it gets to be too much," Dean said, locking eyes with Sam to make sure he got the message. You know I'm not just letting you go, don't you?

Sam tried to smile, but it came out crooked. "Sure."

Sam was up and heading for the door before Dean could get another word out, and then he was gone.

x.x.x.x.x

They were on the road in no time at all, Dean behind the wheel and Sam tucked into the passenger's seat. Dean couldn't help but feel the yank in his gut at the feeling of the road beneath his baby's wheels and the familiar – and lately not seen– sight of his brother next to him while the three of them sped off toward a new job.

Painful didn't begin to cover it.

"So, you want to know more about the hunt?" Cursing the fact that uncertainty was one of the only ways he could approach his brother, Dean waited for an answer.

"I skimmed the file before we left." Sam didn't turn away from the window. "Angry spirit of a dead man is haunting the house he died in. Shot by his son-in-law at a party and bled out on the porch – now there's a bloodstain on the porch that keeps coming back and people who live in the house die from blood clots in the brain, which is apparently how the son-in-law died in jail. Classic vengeful spirit."

"Did you read the part about some residents dying from blood loss? None of them had a mark on them. They were just found drained on the porch," Dean added.

"Probably just another method of revenge."

"I don't know. Seems strange for a ghost like that to switch up the deaths."

"Well, 'guess we'll see when we get there."

Dean drummed his fingers against the hard surface of the wheel, fingers seeking out familiar grooves in the material. Subtly, he shifted his gaze to Sam. His brother was staring absently out the window, his thoughts far away.

Turning back to the road, he noted that the sun was halfway risen, casting long shadows from trees onto the dew-dampened ground. The dark silhouettes filed past the window, dragged by like lonely spirits forced from their graves.

"Want to stop and get breakfast?" He asked it just to have something to say.

"If you want."

"You hungry?"

"No."

"Thirsty?"

"I'm fine, Dean."

"Okay."

The minutes dripped slowly past, making Dean wish he'd turned on some music before they took off; he would put it on now, but he didn't want to move for fear that… he didn't ever know what. It was the tension between him and Sam that felt too huge to overcome – it stayed his hand and forced him to sit in silence.

"How're we going to handle it?" Again with saying things just to have something but that damn wall between them.

Quizzical hazel-blue eyes met Dean's. "You mean the job?"

Dean shrugged.

"Salt and burn is the general method." Sam seemed slightly amused, much to Dean's annoyance.

"Yeah, but… I just think we should stick together on this one." Dean glanced at Sam and saw his little brother's eyes darken into deep brown.

"Together. You mean we shouldn't ever split up."

"Not this time. We should just be careful until we're both back up to speed."

"You mean me."

Maybe. "No, I mean—"

"Because of my addiction, right? Never know when I might freak out and slice someone open. Maybe I should walk in front of you, just in case – that way you can make sure I don't go crazy and start offing people just for the heck of it."

Dean sat in stunned silence, numbness traveling from his fingers up his arms.

"You're going to miss our exit." Sam pointed to a sign next to an oncoming ramp.

Without much thought, Dean turned the wheel and pulled off onto the ramp, still reeling from what Sam had said.

"Not much longer 'til we're there," Sam murmured.

"What the hell kind of crap was that?" Dean finally exploded, letting his surprise settle to the back of his mind like sand to the bottom of a pool.

Sam hitched a shoulder, his face calm as a damn Zen master's. "That's what monsters do."

"Sam, you—"

"Don't. Just – just don't. I can't listen to this right now."

"Listen to what exactly?"

"Garbage about how I'm…"

"Wait, you're sick of me lying to you?" Dean correctly ascertained, "When all last year the only thing you did was feed me line after line of bull crap?"

"Yeah, that's about it." Sam frowned coldly and shifted to sit straighter in his seat.

"No, nuh uh, you don't get to just throw something like that at me and then shut down. You want to have this out – fine, we'll have it out."

Icy eyes turned on Dean, fortified behind so many walls that Dean almost couldn't see his brother. Once upon a time he'd been the only one able to scale those walls.

"Seems to me we've already talked this thing to death; I told you what I was trying to do, and I got your position loud and clear. You were right, and I screwed us all to hell." And just like that, Sam turned away again.

Dean was left grinding his teeth together, feeling helpless and borderline outraged. Their fight in that hotel room didn't constitute 'talking it out' to him. That was… he didn't even want to think about what that was. While normally he would rather choke to death than share feelings, this was Sam.

And damn it, he didn't want to be right – he just wanted his brother to be okay. He wished to God he'd been wrong; still hoped he was wrong where Sam was concerned.

He opened his mouth to say something, came up with nothing. He wanted to yell at Sam and he wanted to comfort him at the same time. He was no psychologist, but he didn't think both at the once would do much good. But he couldn't leave Sam like that – thinking that the whole thing was his fault; Dean wasn't exactly without blame. Seals didn't break themselves.

"It wasn't just you."

"We've got five minutes before we're there." Sam angled his shoulders away from Dean.

Resisting the urge to clear his throat and shift in his seat, Dean tried again. "This…thing, the Apocalypse or whatever – it's not just your fault."

A bitter, broken smile slid over Sam's mouth, twisting his features into something Dean didn't like. "No, it's not is it? I sure as hell had help on some of it. But hey, can't let her take all the credit – Dumbo didn't even need his freaking feather."

Once again Dean was left feeling like he'd dropped into the middle of someone else's conversation, or perhaps down a rabbit hole into a messed up world. Instead of trying to figure out what exactly Sam was going on about, Dean shook his head.

"That's not what I meant. There's something I didn't tell you."

Sam's closed gaze turned flickered toward him, his hand going to the dashboard to wipe away imaginary dust. "Is it something I need to know? Something I did or something I need to fix?"

"Not – not really." Dean cursed the slight stutter in his voice. He tightened his jaw and pressed his foot to the gas pedal as he came out of a curve in the road. The car shot forward, taking them closer to their new job.

"Then don't tell me."

Dean could hear the words Sam wasn't saying – You can't trust me. And more than anything he wished that wasn't true.