AN: This is co-written with the amazing Adara-chan67,without all her hardwork and amazing talent this story wouldn't be here.Thanks Adara!

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Sam always thought white was the color of good, the color of hope and justice, was always Dean's and his color. They were far from angels, but they were of the few in this wretched world that went into battle without a second thought, all for the people.

But white wasn't good anymore. White was the bland, colorless, rough fabric wall that stared back at him day in and day out. Just that white wall was all his eyes saw, the reflection settling on dull and emotionless eyes.

The people were the same, plain pale faces going through the motions of life here, in this place of Hell on earth. They stared at him with dead and tired eyes, not caring and never looking into those hazel orbs any further then they had to. Slaves to society and its throw-away mannerisms.

Sam was all alone in this, with only the robots that tied him up and shoved miserable medicine dryly down his throat to keep him company. The mind-impairing pills would be shoved in, and like cockroaches scurrying down a path they went and all he did was sit and take it, helpless against what fate had thrown him.

He didn't remember how he got to this place, all he remembered was holding Dean's corpse, the warm blood still trickling onto his skin from torn flesh and mortal wounds. He remembered crying, hot tears dripping from his skin while his throat tightened and burned as he realized his brother was gone. Was really gone and dead in an eternal hell…all because of him.

Sam stroked the wall with a calloused hand, the motion slow as he admired the leathery texture of the fabric; his eyes stared glassy and unfixed as the drugs clogged his senses and blighted his mind. He hummed Metallica, the lyrics repeated so many times, like a lullaby to an infant—he knew them well, let them wash over his mind and cradle him gently.

He heard the door creak open, steel against steel that what seemed a life time ago would have made his face scrunch in disgust, but now he didn't even acknowledge the uttered noise.

"Sam, you have somebody here to see you. Do you remember Bobby? Bobby Singer?"

The nurses voice was fake, like elevator music with its attempts to be comforting, all while droning on and on in an agitating way. Sam didn't say anything, didn't even move or make an attempt to recognize his old friend. He just stared, dull eyes tracing his finger tip with its short, blunt nail as it trailed softly over the white fabric wall, taking in the rough feeling as fabric rubbed against flesh.

"Hey, Sam…been a while."

Sam didn't know if it had been or not—last time he saw Bobby was when Dean died. When was that? He didn't recall. There was only a time before Dean's death, a wonderful thing full of emotions and life. Then, then there was this life after Dean's death, the new one in which he felt nothing, cared about nothing…and just hoped by doing so he would turn into nothing.

"Ellen sent these, Sam, said she'd send the whiskey as soon as you get outta here."

Sam heard plastic crinkle, the noise stinging his dull ears. He saw hands place a bag of pretzels before him softly. He saw one gnarled and aged hand, black oil set in the deep groves and cracks from hours of working with cars, the other missing three fingers with a long scar running up the arm, pink and puffy like yarn beneath the skin.

Sam stared at this. Bobby always had all his fingers—when did this happen? His brow knitted in confusion, the first sign of emotions in months and he opened his dry mouth to speak to his old friend.

"What happened to your hand, Bobby?"

The sound was rough, coarse and dry from months without use, the noise emitted even startling Sam a bit. It made him want to sink back down to his dark burrow of memories and austerity, the place where he ignored the world around him.

Bobby paused, holding his breath and keeping back tears from the small breakthrough, yet he didn't know how to respond, didn't know how to react to Sam's question.

"Something got the best of me when I shouldn't have let it, but I'm alright…" He waited for Sam to look at him, but that chilling stare didn't flicker for a moment.

Sam listened, heard what Bobby said but when he heard Bobby say he was alright he only nodded once before sinking back into his thoughtless mind.

The moment faded away, and Bobby let one tear slide down his face, crystal liquid vanishing into an untamed beard, before going back toward the door.

"Bye, Sammy…" His whisper was soft, Sam barley heard the use of his old nickname as the door screeched shut and he was once again alone in the small cell.

Time passed—Sam never really knew how much, never really cared. It wasn't as if he could feel himself aging here, like he had once upon a time in the real world. Time was in the eye of the beholder; it was the moments he had spent with his brother, had spent at school and all the other moments in his life that had shaped him.

The moments before Dean had been ripped to shreds, flesh, muscles and bones being strewn about the room like confetti. Those precious moments had defined time for Sam, and after that, as he held his older brother's dead, cold and stiffening body in his hands, time had seemed to fall away. He had just seemed to sink away…and never stopped sinking.

He didn't pay attention as the door creaked open—just another droid here to do their duty, their service to the world. Footsteps shuffled toward him, pausing as papers ruffled and a chair was set down.

Not a droid today but an interrogator, the doctors who asked all the wrong questions and did all the wrong things. Sam's toes were cold and tuning blue as they rested upon the cold, hard floor, as the chair screeched he curled them up tensely, holding them tight against himself.

"Hey, Sammy." The voice was loud and booming, deep and velvety smooth, belonging to an African American man—it didn't belong here. It was too full of life, too full of emotion and passion. It made Sam feel, and he didn't like that. It made him want to burrow further into the memories, further away from this place.

He'd never heard this doctor before, he never looked at any of them but surely knew each one's own individual voice.

"I heard you had a visitor today, but he went home disappointed…just like they always do, huh?" There was a ruffle of papers then a cold, metal smack as he dropped the clip board on the ground beside Sam.

He didn't flinch though, he never flinched.

Sam clenched his jaw and concentrated harder on the memory.

Dean was fourteen, Sam was ten. They were in some cheap motel with Dad gone for the third day in a row on a hunt he said was easy, told Dean he wouldn't need his help on it. It was sweltering hot out, and to make matters worse the air conditioner was broke. Sam kept begging Dean to please just go swimming in the pool with him, please just get out of this cramped space. With an eye roll and a groan Dean finally caved, Sam grinning in joy as his brother and him raced out too the small pool.

It was night out, one of those July evenings with humid still air and only the occasional soft breeze to relieve your slick, heated skin. The brothers stood beside the pool in their boxers, grins on their faces as they stared down at the crisp cool water, the scent of chlorine rolling lazily to their nostrils as it beckoned them. Frogs sang softly around them in the small Ohio town, crickets chirped peacefully and fire flies danced slowly through the heavy air, indolently taking in the night.

"On three Sammy, one…two…three!" Dean jumped in with a shout and Sam followed with a grin.

They hit the water, cool and refreshing against burning, tired skin. Sam came up and sucked in air, for a few moments watched in curiosity as his brother stayed under an incredibly long time. Sam wanting to be like his big brother took a big gulp of air, filling frail lungs with life giving oxygen before plummeting back under. He opened his eyes, the water crystal clear with the blue haze carried from the night lights that littered the floor. Sam stayed put, determined to be just like Dean, no matter how much his lungs burned, begged to release this air and get clean, new oxygen. He slowly released the air, bubbles dancing quickly away from his nostrils into the water around him before surfacing and disappearing.

Dean swam up beside him, cheeks filled with air and a one eyebrow raise of questioning on his face. Sam remained unmoving, even as pain tore through his lungs and sent warning alarms off in his head. Dean signaled for him to rise, but Sam didn't move even as darkness began to close in around his vision, the lights becoming blobs of white against hazy blue water.

Dean grabbed Sam firmly and yanked his younger sibling to the surface, just as Sam began to loose consciousness. He pulled the small boy to the dry tiles beside the pool, talking to him quickly as he worked and begging his baby brother to stay with him.

Sam opened his eyes and Dean's worried face greeted him, droplets of water trickling down his cheeks and blending with the tears that fell from his eyes.

"Thought I lost you there, little man, how 'bout we go inside? Ok?" Dean spoke quietly, the fear that any louder would cause his voice to crack, tight with emotion and worry.

Sam only nodded as his small, frail body shook in fear and cold, water clung to his skin and soaked his hair into a mopped mess. Dean carefully wrapped a towel around his quivering form and…

"I know you're in there, Sam, choosing to ignore the outside world with memories of your brother. You have to face the facts, though, Sam…he's dead." The voice cut through the memory like a knife, tearing Sam's eyes away from the white wall to face the doctor.

His hazel eyes were glazed with drugs, but a fire burned hot and savagely upon them, causing the doctor himself to gasp in surprise.

"Don't talk about my brother," Sam growled, so low and deep it could barely be heard, but the doctor slowly nodded and told him he had been heard.

Sam went to turn back to the wall, but a searing pain that suddenly tore through his mind like a hot blade made scream in agony. Panic gripped his heart as basic human instinct took over, his head was blazing and he had no idea why, he clawed at his eyes and pulled at his hair but nothing would stop the terrible pain. He felt a firm hand on his shoulder, one that momentarily reminded him of Dean and how he would always tend him when in trouble. The thought was brushed away though as a vision of death, horror and terror was slammed into his mind.