This is the final chapter! I would like to thank everyone for reading this, especially those of you who review. You guys are awesome! :) Enjoy.

Dean jerked awake and opened his eyes with a gasp.

Sweat poured down his skin and darkness accosted him from every side. Trying not to panic, he tried to remember where he was—how he had gotten there—but his mind remained stubbornly blank. He swallowed hard and tried to push himself up with his hands—and paused. He was lying on something soft. He ignored the throbbing pain in his body and pushed himself up further. A blanket shifted and slid off his torso.

Dean's breathing calmed slightly as his scattered brain figured it out. He was in a hotel—he was safe. He paused for a moment to wipe away beads of sweat that had accumulated on his brow as he slept. "Damn nightmares…" he groaned, scowling angrily at himself.

He stretched out a shaking hand and reached wildly to the side until his hand hit something protruding from the wall. He reached farther until he found the switch, and flicked it up.

Light flooded the room and Dean squinted against the sudden brightness. His eyes narrowed further as he gazed around himself, taking in the pastel green walls, small television, and the second untouched bed.

He frowned. He couldn't remember checking in to the room…screw that, he didn't have a clue where he was in the first place, let alone how he got there. He sat up further with a small groan and his eyes focused on his open duffel bag lying on the tan carpet—he couldn't remember bringing it inside.

"Must've drunk too much last night…" he groaned, sinking back into bed. "That's it, just drunk…too much…" He frowned, as he rolled the idea around in his head. But that would mean a hangover…

He bolted up quickly, realizing that his head was mostly clear. No hangover.

The sudden motion caused the world to lurch wildly. He brought a hand up to his head and his fingers grazed over a couple of stitches. He froze.

What the hell?!

Dean stumbled out of bed, cursing as he tripped in his haste to reach the bathroom. He flicked on the light and peered into the mirror. Tired, bewildered eyes stared back at him from the dirty glass. There were four neat stitches right below his hairline, and a butterfly bandage covered another smaller gash near his chin. His other cuts and bruises looked as though they had been cleaned…

He took in a sharp intake of breath and winced, suddenly aware of the throbbing pain in his chest. He glanced down—and his confusion increased dramatically. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and strips of material had been wrapped tightly around his chest, as though...

He took another breath and gritted his teeth as a sharp pain caused him to shorten it. Broken ribs…

"But..." Dean murmured, completely awake. "I don't remember…" He spun around, searching the hotel room for any clues as to what had happened. The trash can next to the bed was full of gauze and blood. He staggered over to the door and saw that it had been lined with salt…

But that was impossible, because he hadn't been taking any precautions like that…not since Sam…

"What the hell is going on?" He muttered, trying to stay calm even as his heart pounded in his chest, "I didn't…I don't…"

He sank down onto the closest bed and shut his eyes, trying to remember. The last thing he remembered was driving his car to the cemetery, and then—

Nothing.

He concentrated harder, trying to push back the pain in his ribs that had increased dramatically now that he was moving around. Flashes of disjointed memory shot through his mind—

Gravestones.

Pain.

Darkness.

A man with blue eyes—

And…anger.

The intense feeling shot through him again, startling him.

So much anger—so much hate—he shook his head, trying to make sense of it. A simple ghost could never have made him that furious, that hurt. Especially after Sam died—he hadn't been angry since Sam died. He hadn't been…anything…since Sam died. Just numb. Completely numb.

And then he realized something else. The numbness he had held onto so desperately for the past few weeks was gone, leaving an empty ache behind as though someone had chiseled a hole out of his chest.

The memories of Sam's death that he had worked so hard to suppress came flooding back in an instant. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to force the traitorous thoughts away. He blinked furiously and staggered to his feet and over to his bag. He dug through it, desperately searching for his keys.

He needed to get drunk. He needed to get the numbness back.

Dead—dead—Sam—dead—alone—you—you—you—

His keys were missing, and no matter how far down he dug he couldn't find them. "Damn it!" he shrieked. His voice sounded desperate, shaky, and much higher than it was supposed to. He stopped his search and slumped back against the dresser, exhausted.

He needed to figure this out. Nothing made sense. He forced himself to concentrate—to remember. The man with blue eyes stood out like a beacon of light in his memory.

Who was he?

Dean concentrated, but his recent memories were sluggish and unclear.

"Dean…can we carry on this conversation later when you're not bleeding everywhere?"

Dean flinched. His mind flashed with images of concerned eyes, black hair…

"Then why haven't you shot me yet?"

"Do what? You're killing yourself, Dean!"

"Sam?" Dean whispered, his memory rushing back all at once.

"You know who I am."

"Sam." Dean breathed. "Oh God…Sam." He remembered now, he remembered everything. The graveyard, the ghost, the fight, the flames, everything—

Sam had been there. His brother had been right there.

Sam—

He stumbled to his feet, the emptiness of the room suddenly suffocating and unbearable. It wasn't a dream—oh God please don't let it have been a dream—

"Sammy?!" he called loudly, staring frantically around the vacant room. "Sam??"

No answer.

He staggered over to the door and threw it open. The night air was freezing cold, and snowflakes were falling slowly, blanketing the ground with a soft white.

The Impala was there, parked in front of the room. It was already covered with several inches of snow—it hadn't been moved for a long time. His heart sank.

He was alone.

The sudden flame of hope that had risen inside of him vanished in a cloud of smoke. Sam wasn't there. He never had been—it had all been a dream. A nightmare. He dropped to his knees in the snow, suddenly oblivious and uncaring toward the icy wind as he stared at the parked Impala.

It was hard enough to lose his brother once. It was excruciating to lose him twice. To lose him for a third time was just cruel, unbearable—

The air moved softly for a moment. Dean ignored it. He never wanted to move again.

"Dean?!" a horrified voice exclaimed behind him. There was a thud as something was dropped on the ground, and then hands instantly latched onto his bare shoulders. "Oh God, Dean, what are you doing??"

Dean's eyes snapped open. A man was kneeling in front of him—the man with black hair and blue eyes. His mouth dropped slightly. Sam. Sam is the one with black hair and blue eyes…

"Dean—it's freezing out here—" Sam was saying, gazing intently at him with unveiled distress, "You don't even have a shirt on! You're going to make yourself sicker than you already are!"

Dean tried to open his mouth. To say something. But he couldn't seem to get his mind around the fact that Sam was really there. That it hadn't all been a dream.

His speechlessness only added to Sam's anxiety. "God, Dean—I left for ten minutes to get you more meds—ten minutes!" he moaned. "Couldn't you have just stayed asleep?"

Dean breathed out shakily. "S-sam?" he managed to murmur shakily. So cold…

"Yeah, it's me." Sam said soothingly, "It's going to be okay." He pulled his brother gently to his feet and helped him back inside the room. Dean felt himself walking, but the whole situation seemed surreal. Sam led him to the bed and eased him down onto it.

Dean just stared. After a moment Sam hurriedly threw a blanket over his shoulders in an effort to warm him up.

"You're going to be fine." Sam was saying. "You've been asleep for over a day…but you needed the rest. God, Dean, you..." he trailed off and then started again, "You had a really high fever—and that was on top of the complete lack of sleep or food—but I managed to get your temperature down. Of course, that was after I patched up all your injuries and—"

"Sam?"

"—wrapped your ribs. I think you broke at least two in that impact with the tombstone—"

"Sam—"

"What have you been doing, Dean? You were so bad that I thought I was gonna have to take you to a hospital—"

"SAM!"

Sam paused and looked at Dean. Really looked at Dean. His brother was still shaking slightly from the cold, but his eyes were so…lost. So vulnerable. Sam gritted his teeth together, unsure of what to say. "Dean…"

Dean licked his lips nervously but didn't look at him. "Sammy, you…you're really alive?"

The words were simple enough—but the emotion behind them was overwhelming. Sam sighed heavily and sank down on the bed beside his brother. "Yes." He said simply.

"And you're not going to…disappear or anything?"

Sam winced. "I'm so sorry Dean, I didn't mean for you to wake up alone. I didn't think you would wake up this soon and I needed to get you more meds—"

"You didn't take the Impala."

Sam shook his head. "I didn't need to…powers, remember? I thought it would be quicker."

Dean was silent for a moment. "I…I thought…"

Sam cringed, realizing what Dean had probably thought when he woke up alone. "I'm here." He said reassuringly. "Really. I'm not going anywhere."

Dean exhaled softly but still avoided looking at his brother. "Are you…okay?"

Sam's expression hardened. The question was harmless enough, but he felt a sudden unexplainable surge of anger. "Am I okay?" he said, the words coming out slightly harsher than they were meant to.

Dean flinched slightly but kept his eyes down. "Yeah." He muttered. "You…" he trailed off.

Sam shook his head, suddenly furious, and stood up. "I what, Dean? I'm not the one that was unconscious for twenty-eight straight hours. I'm not the one who had a fever of 104.5 and hasn't eaten in weeks. I'm not the one who's been playing suicidal games with the entire supernatural playground. Don't ask me if I'm okay, Dean. Don't you dare."

Dean blinked and took in a sharp breath of air. "Sammy—you died. I couldn't…"

"No Dean. You listen to me." Sam said, and his voice softened instantly as he knelt down beside his brother. He sighed heavily. "We can't keep doing this." He said, exhaustion filling his voice. "You…you nearly got yourself killed, Dean. If I hadn't found you when I did…that ghost would have killed you. And it wasn't even a challenge—it was a routine salt and burn."

"I was trying." Dean mumbled.

"That wasn't trying." Sam said bitterly, "That was giving up."

"You were dead, Sam." Dean said irritably, "What was I supposed to do? Pretend I was fine? Forget you ever existed? Start hunting with Bobby?" his voice rose with every word, and he finally looked up, his eyes glinting with anger. "Admit it, Sam—you would have done the same things that I had if our positions had been reversed."

"Yes, I know that. That's exactly my point!" Sam said tiredly. He stood up and stared down at Dean, taking advantage of the eye contact his brother had finally given him, "We can't keep doing this, Dean. Every time one of us dies, the other just gives up…or…"

Dean grinned bitterly. "Does something stupid?"

"Yes!" Sam exclaimed, throwing his arms up in the air. "Every time, Dean. Every single time."

"Well, maybe if we would both just stop dying all the time that wouldn't be a problem."

Sam shook his head bitterly. "With what we do…" he began, and trailed off. "To be fair, I'd say we have less than five years left. If that."

"And I thought I was the pessimistic one." Dean muttered.

"We're living on borrowed time as it is." Sam countered. "We both should have been dead by now."

"Multiple times each." Dean added wryly.

"Yeah." Sam said, his voice falling further. He sat back down beside his brother on the bed. "One of these days…one of us is going to die. And stay dead."

Dean winced. "You don't think I know that?" he demanded angrily.

"I know you know it." Sam continued, "But you always seem to think it'll be you and I always think it'll be me."

"One of us is going to be wrong." Dean said with a shrug.

"Yeah." Sam said softly.

Dean paused. "Well Sammy…what do we do?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know." He said, frustrated.

They sat there in silence for a few moments.

Dean glanced over at his brother, trying to think of something to say. "That's it?" he finally muttered lightly, trying to make himself smile, "After that big speech the best you can come up with is that you don't know?"

Sam shot him a glare. "What—you think you can figure it out? Damn it, Dean—all those evil bastards have to do is kill one of us and—wham—threat eliminated. I'm pretty sure the entire supernatural world knows that by now."

Dean frowned. "Yeah. I know, Sam." he said resignedly. He breathed out, wincing as the motion caused his ribs to throb, "The only solution I can come up with is that we both work harder on not dying."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, cause that's worked so well in the past…be serious, Dean."

Dean reached out and gave his brother's shoulder a small squeeze. "Hey." He said comfortingly, "We'll figure it out, Sammy. Besides…with you discovering freaky new powers every day, we have a much better chance at survival. By now, anything remotely dangerous should run away screaming when they see you coming. Who knows…that alone might give us another five or ten years."

Sam smiled softly at Dean's attempt at humor. "Yeah." He muttered, meeting his gaze. "I guess you're right."

"I'm always right." Dean said with a grin. After a moment he frowned and tilted his head to the side, studying Sam's expression.

"What?" Sam asked, confused.

Dean shook his head and released his brother's shoulder. "This is weird."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "What is?"

Dean smirked slightly and wordlessly gestured to Sam's appearance.

"Oh." Sam said. "That. Yeah."

"Weird." Dean repeated with emphasis.

"I know." Sam sighed. "It was the best I could do—this body is about the same age as my other one, and—"

"Looks absolutely nothing like you." Dean interjected.

Sam shrugged. "If it's any consolation I'm still taller than you."

Dean scowled. "That's...not fair. I'm older."

"I'm pretty sure age doesn't determine height."

"It should." Dean muttered, still studying him. "And anyway—black hair and blue eyes? Really?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Of course it's a problem, Sammy!" Dean shot back teasingly. "You do know what this means, don't you?"

Sam's eyes narrowed in confusion. "…no?"

"We look nothing alike now."

"So what?" Sam asked. He thought for a moment. "Oh." He said, realizing what Dean was saying. "Damn it…"

Dean laughed. "Sorry Sammy…people thought you were gay before, imagine what they're gonna think now. They'll never believe we're brothers."

Sam glared at him, but there was a small smile on his face. "Jerk." He mumbled, grinning.

Dean's breath hitched.

Sam's smile vanished instantly. "What is it? Are you alright?"

Dean nodded weakly. God, Sammy…I missed you so much. "Yeah." He said instead, "I guess I'm just tired."

Sam nodded authoritatively. "Okay—back to bed."

Dean shot him an incredulous look. "What am I—four?"

Sam smiled. "Sometimes I wonder…"

Dean reached out weakly and hit him. "You better watch out, Sammy."

Sam's smile widened. "I'm terrified." He said mockingly. He stood up and helped Dean back into the other bed.

Dean leaned into his brother, grateful for the help.

Sam left him alone and walked into the bathroom for a moment. He returned with a paper cup of water and some pills. "Here." he said, handing them to Dean, "These will help with the pain."

Dean glanced at Sam for a moment and then swallowed the pills and the water in one gulp. "Okay Mom." He said teasingly, sitting the empty cup on the bedside table. "Anything else?"

"Shut-up." Sam said, shaking his head exasperatedly. "Go to sleep before you faint again." He paused, grinning, "Oh wait, you don't faint, do you? Only girls faint—you pass out."

Dean smirked. "Damn straight."

Sam's grin softened. "I'll be here when you wake up." He promised.

Dean shut his eyes, hiding his relief. "You better be." He mumbled. "No more scandalous late night outings, Sammy."

"I went to get you more meds." Sam said defensively. "I was only gone for ten minutes."

"Whatever you say." Dean taunted.

Sam laughed. "Go to sleep, Dean."

"Okay." Dean muttered sleepily as whatever drug Sam had given him began taking affect. "Night Sammy."

Sam smiled.

The End.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this story. Please REVIEW and let me know your thoughts.

Michelle Knight