Hey guys. Just another random little plot bunny that came to my mind.

I hope to update Saccharine Disposition soon, for those waiting for it. I hope this ties you over.

I needed a little brotherly fluff after the announcement of the show's end, and this is what popped out. Definitely brotherly fluff...yeah...

My stories always turn depressing. I think I have issues.

I know I messed up the timelines for this! I got that part. But it's my story, and I love the bunker too much for it not to be included. Just...pretend they discovered the bunker before Cas returned from Purgatory, okay? So here: this takes place before Cas is back from Purgatory, but after they have the bunker. Because the bunker rocks.

Enjoy! Please leave a review if you have the time—even if it's just a single word. It means a lot to me.

I don't ask for much.

Three days. Three fucking days. Three days was enough for Dean to break down more than eight times, drink himself into oblivion twice, and torture five different people.

He was actually turning crazy.

Sam had been gone for three fucking days, and Dean had been lost. Not to mention lonely, too. Which, okay—maybe that was a bit codependent, but sue him. His little brother was gone, and this wasn't all right.

The first 24 hours hadn't been bad. Honestly, he'd been pissed. Dean'll admit, he hadn't necessarily been kind to his brother these past few weeks; but, did he not have valid reason? Try being locked in a quite literal hell-hole for a year, running for you life, only to return home to your sanction and find your brother had been smucking it up with some chick. How about that for codependency?

But, approaching the second day, he grew concerned. Sam was nowhere; his bags were still there, which hampered Dean's concerns that he had run back to—what was her name? Ava? Amy? Amelia? Amelia, that was it. He'd just disappeared.

Poof. Right from Lebanon while he was retrieving food at Dean's request.

For the first time in, well, ever, Dean had nobody. Not Bobby, not Cas, not Ellen or Jo, not...not Sam. In one drunken endeavor during Sam's absence, his mind had very not-so-kindly reminded him Sam had to deal with this for an entire year, while he could barely manage two days. He refuted that instantly, though. Sam had been fine—couldn't even be bothered to search. So, you may ask, why was Dean looking for his brother now?

Dean may be unfathomably angry and disappointed, but he still loved and looked out for the kid.

And he was going nuts.

Dean was about ready to tie off his third unsuccessful day with his good friend Jack Daniel when he heard it. Setting the pristine glass bottle down, he slowly stood up from his seat, eyebrows furrowed. It was soft, but there. Drawing his gun, he switched off the safety and made his way up the bunker's metal stairs silently. That was just most definitely a knock, wasn't it?

A wave of apprehension washed over him, and he swallowed it quickly.

He opened the door.

Immediately he gasped, bounding outside to catch the form dangerously teetering forward. He was stopped suddenly, though, when the figure's raspy voice yelled, "Don't!"

Dean halted, his hands half-raised. The hell? Standing before him, a picturesque of macabre art, was Sam, eyes unfocused and heaving in breaths. His face was painted with crimson, blood leaving more of his face covered rather than exposed. One of his eyes was sporting an impressive shiner, deep blue surrounding the entire socket; his shoulder was contorted into an aberrant angle, and Dean knew without a doubt it was dislocated; his nose was quite obviously broken, swollen and off-center. He looked like shit, and Dean was pretty sure if he didn't find who did this to his little brother soon, he'd go on a murdering spree.

He tried again to move to support Sam, but stopped as soon as the younger man attempted to back up out of his reach and almost tumbled onto his ass. He watched carefully as his brother steadied himself.

"Sammy?" he asked softly.

The only response he got was a mumble of words that sounded something along the lines of, "D'n't t'ch me."

Don't touch me?

Dean looked at Sam desperately. The slur of words was not promising. "Why can't I touch you, buddy?" Sam blinked, staring at him. He then turned his gaze elsewhere, someplace past Dean, and Dean snapped his fingers in front of his face to regain his attention. "Sam, I'm about two seconds from pulling you over my shoulder and dragging you inside myself. Why can't I touch you?"

Sam suddenly shouted, panicked, "No!" Dean flinched and backed away a pace. Nothing really scares Dean Winchester, but this was fucking terrifying. "B'mb."

He shook his head rapidly. "Dude, I don't even know what you're saying. Talk to me, man. Full sentences."

Sam's gaze bore into him. Slowly, he began, "S'rry."

Dean nodded. "You're fine. Just tell me what's going on. Please," he added achingly.

"Dr'gg'd. C'n't focus. I'm s'rry."

"Not your fault."

"M'kay." Sam shifted on his feet. Dean could tell the guy was exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to lug his brother into their home, clean his wounds—after he discovered the extent of said wounds, that is—and force him to sleep for a solid 24 hours. However, even though Sam was apparently—and boy if that didn't make Dean furious—drugged, he was trying his best to tell Dean something.

"Y-You c'n't touch me 'cause I h've a b'mb."

"A what?"

"A bomb!" Sam cried, pawing at Dean's shirt. The cat was out of the bag now, and Dean's heart plummeted into his stomach. Possibly even through his ass and into the ground—he couldn't even feel it in his chest. Everything stood still.

Alas, it struck him. "Shit!"

Quickly but gingerly, he moved at Sam's threadbare flannel. Sam tried to prevent him, but Dean easily shoved his intruding arms to the side. "Work with me here. I need to see it."

"No!" his brother pleaded. "He s-said—"

"I don't care whatever dick said what, okay?"

"But—"

"Uh-uh. Arms up."

Sam, seemingly seeing no other option, complied. Dean shrugged the shirt off him.

He honestly had no idea what he was expecting. Maybe some twisted form of a joke or proof this wasn't actually happening, but they were the fucking Winchesters. Of course it was happening. Strapped to his little brother's chest via a long line of black tape was the strangest looking contraption he'd ever seen. Wires littered the metal, taunting, and buttons of different colors and sizes laughed at him. The most alarming part was the timer, though.

5:21.

This was a scene out a fucking movie.

Sam looked at him, eyes downcast, and Dean felt like he wanted to scream. "I-It's fine," he assured instead, opting for comfort he didn't know was honest. "I swear. Look, we'll just get this thing off you, leave it in the bunker, a-and…"

Sam grabbed his arm. "H-He s'd if you t'ch it, it goes off. He dr'pped me here 'cause he w'nt'd to k'll us both."

"Yeah, well that ain't happening."

"De'."

"No. We'll figure this out, okay?" he continued, the words rushed.

"De'."

"I'll try and call, like, Crowley or something. He'd help, wouldn't he? Do you have any—"

"Dean!"

He fell silent. Sam perused him. "This isn't s'mth'ng we can j'st weasel out of. I don't ask for much. Just leave me...just leave me down here and get out."

Dean rubbed a calloused hand over his face and through his hair. He looked once more at the menacing clock.

4:32.

"No."

"No? Dean!"

"I'm not leaving you!"

"Why n't? You should w'nt me gone!"

Dean stood stark still, ice creeping up his spine. Whatever the hell was going through Sam's mind right now was bullshit and needed to get fixed. Now.

A few moments of silence passed. "What do you mean I should want you gone? You're kidding me, right?"

Sam shrugged, then stumbled over to one of their oaken chairs. The legs scraped against the hardwood as he dragged it back and carefully plopped onto it, wary of the explosive. At least he was appearing more aware by the second, his words less of inarticulate phrases and more of meaningful sentences.

"I've been nothin' but a pain since you came b'ck," he said plainly, as though he were talking about the weather. "You're r'ght. B-Benny's b'n a better brother than I could ever be. Least...least you'll h've him. I shoulda finished what I was going to do in Kermit when I had the chance. None of this would be a problem."

Dean was stunned into quietude. He finally brought himself to speak after a long, pregnant pause. "When did I ever say that? And what do you mean finish what you started?"

Sam laughed. Actually laughed. It was like he thought this whole ordeal was a fucking joke, and Dean wanted to know why.

"You said it under the penny's infl'nce," Sam deadpanned. "Plus, I was t'king the 'pala to a cliff. That's...that's when I h't the dog. Riot. He saved m' life."

This was too much information for Dean to process. His brother? Suicide? Yeah, right. But...with the bomb on his chest there would be no reason for him to lie, would there? Dean felt himself shrink inside. He checked the clock.

3:12.

This was bad. Very, very bad.

He turned his focus to the threatening piece of technology. There was no way he was defusing this himself. It was simply impossible. They had nobody to call for help either, and Dean knew this was only ending two ways: Sam dying alone in the bunker, or Sam dying with him in the bunker. He'd be damned before he let it be the former.

If this was happening, it was happening together.

"Dean...please. Leave."

Dean glared at his brother.

"Let me go. Please."

And there it was—those damn eyes that always managed to convince him to do anything when they were little. But not this. Definitely not this.

"Sam, shut up."

The younger man looked stricken. "So, what, you're just giving up, is that it?"

"Pretty hypocritical coming from you," Dean growled, and knew he was going to regret saying that later.

Sam seemed like he wanted to say something more; however, he then held his hands up in surrender. "Fine. I deserved th't. You've alw'ys been stronger than me, though. You can keep going."

"Yeah, well who says I want to?" Suddenly, it was six years ago and they were sitting in that crappy medical room with an infected Sam begging him to leave him alone to his gun. Dean felt the same weakness in his heart, the same soul-crushing realization that this was where things were going to end for them. After everything they'd been through, it was this.

2:34.

Sam seemed as though he didn't know what to say. Dean spoke for him, changing the subject, letting his previous words settle. "So who, uh, who was it?"

His brother sighed. "Nobody important. Just...someone from Dad's past. That's all you need to kn'w, okay? I've got—" he looked down at the clock, "—less than two and a half minutes to live. We don't n'd to talk 'bout that."

Dean relented. "All right. Then let me say this. I'm sorry about Amelia, man. I am. I know she meant a lot to you. I didn't mean anything I said under the penny—yeah, you're right. I don't remember what I told you back there. But it doesn't matter. It was shit, whatever it was. A-And...you ever go to check out on me again like that? I'll kick your ghostly ass."

A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Sam's lips, and he looked down at his hands. "Y'know, I'll m'ss this place. I wonder what will happen to it. I guess it'll just concave from the blast?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I guess so."

1:13.

Dean abruptly stood up, making his way over to the liquor cabinet. Without saying a word he handed Sam a bottle, and the younger hunter downed a few fast gulps. Dean mirrored him. They sat in silence like that for a few more seconds.

"Thanks, De'."

"For what, exactly?"

"For...I don't know. Ev'rythin'."

"Thank you too, Sam."

"The hell did I do?"

"Everything."

0:42.

Sam drew in an unsteady breath. The tension was so thick it was drowning them. Dean removed a picture from his jacket and placed it on the table. Together they studied it—just them two on the faded canvas, laughing and drinking beers on the Impala's hood.

Easier times.

"C'mere," Dean whispered, standing up and holding his arms out. Sam leaned into the gesture that soon turned to a full embrace, keeping the bomb securely tucked underneath him. Dean chanced one more look at the timer.

0:13.

Sam tried to look down at it, frightened.

"No, Sam, look at me. Don't look at that, okay?"

He nodded shakily. Both of them now had tears, and neither tried to hide it.

"Love you, Dean."

"Love you too, Sam."

With that Dean closed his eyes, accepting his fate—as long as he was with his brother, he was fine with it. He counted the seconds in his head.

Three.

He held his breath, clutching Sam tighter than ever.

Two.

The only sounds were his and Sam's ragged breathing, preparing for the upcoming catastrophe.

One.

He waited.

And waited.

And...waited.

After a moment he opened his eyes, confused, ignoring the trembles that racked his body. Shouldn't he be, y'know, exploded? Plastered amongst the walls and debris?

He gazed down at the clock, frozen on a red 0:01, then brought his attention to his brother, staring into hysterical hazel eyes.

In the shadows of the bunker, a figure wearing a long beige trench coat stepped further back, satisfied with his work. His family was alive, and that's all that mattered. With a flap of wings he was gone, back to his future timeline not more than three months away, leaving the Winchesters to themselves, alone to figure out the mystery.

Like it'd always been.