Dean's staring at him again like he's crazy; and he's right—Sam knows he is—but it hurts just the same.

They're in some no-name town, doing research in some no-name motel, trying to solve what Dean said would be some simple salt and burn. Dean's lying on the bed, police reports spread around the mattress—one in his hand—and keeps intermittently (conspicuously) glancing over at his brother on the computer.

It really shouldn't surprise him—there's a reason they took what they used to consider a boring case—but Sam wishes they could go back to what they used to be. Back to a time when he wasn't so broken that Dean couldn't trust him to be alone. If things were like they used to be, right now Dean would be sitting in a backwater bar, trying to pick up some backwater chick; not sitting in a dirty motel room babysitting his brother.

Sam sadly realizes that they would have to go back pretty far to get to that point in their relationship.

"Dean," he says, breaking the silence (it's not like it was comfortable, anyway).

"Huh?"

"I think I found something."

"Yeah?" He set the file he was looking at aside and came to stand behind Sam.

"Yeah. So, if you look at those reports," he gestured towards the bed, "all of the victims' throats were slit, right?"

"Right..."

"Well, the local cops just filed another case report—same place, time, profile as the others—except this one was stabbed."

"Really. Is he dead too?"

"No, that's just it—it says here that we was admitted to the hospital and is 'expected to recover.' I thought maybe we could check it out tomorrow."

"Sounds good. Nice job, Sammy."

"Thanks." Finally, he did something right. Finally, he—

The door handle jiggled, and Sam just had time to reach the bedside table where his gun was, before Dean stepped into the room holding two plastic bags.

Sam dumbly stared at the man by the door, then at his doppelganger by the table, and as dawning hit him he lost his breath.

"Sam?" the Dean by the door—the (probably) real one, Sam realized—asked tentatively.

"Yeah?" he choked out.

"You okay…?" He knew he wasn't. He saw the confused (worried, hurt, guilty) look in his eyes.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

As you ever are. "Sorry it took so long—there was a hell of a wait—but I brought back food from the diner in town."

"Right." He knew that. He remembers Dean asking if he wanted anything. He remembers him leaving. Shit.

Sam looks over at the man by the table who—who isn't Dean anymore… Nick—no, Lucifer—stands in his place, arms crossed, smirking. He winks at Sam and waves slightly, before completely disappearing.

With that revelation, Sam turns his attention back to his brother—who has taken on an expression of wariness and worry, along with another emotion Sam can't quite identify. And even though it takes him a moment to place it, when Sam does realize what it is he falls back a step. Because, even though Sam hasn't been with his real brother the entire time, he may as well have been.

Because Dean's staring at him again like he's crazy; and he's right—Sam knows he is—but it hurts just the same.

End

Yeah... I'm sorry. Most of my stuff isn't super happy, and, obviously, this is no exception.

Let me know what you think though? I'd appreciate any comment you have (preferably not negative, but hey, go ahead).