Disclaimer: I don't anything related to Supernatural. The songs mentioned are "Nothing Else Matters" by Metallica, "Stairway to Heaven" by Led Zeppelin, "Forever Young" by Bob Dylan, "Peace of Mind" by Boston, "Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns n' Roses, "Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor, "Shook Me All Night Long" by AC/DC, "Come on Feel the Noise" by Quiet Riot, "No One Like You" by the Scorpions, "Satisfaction" by the Rolling Stones, "Fortunate Son" by Creedence Clearwater Revival, and "We are the Champions" by Queen. None of which are mine.

Warnings: Violence, language, drinking and drug use, talk about suicide, mentions of sexual situations. Nothing explicit.

Summary: Four months without Dean. Hell on Earth. A look at one night in the life of Sam Winchester as he steadily falls apart. Limp!Sam and BigBrother!Dean. Set sometime after No Rest for the Wicked, before Ruby came and worked her magic on Sam. Oneshot.

A/N: Wrote this on the spur-of-the-moment rather late last night. It's a bit weird. Please review. Enjoy:

Head Rush

The girl in the black dress is staring at Sam, and her pupils are gaping in the darkness. Her hair is flaxen and fluoresces brightly beneath the flickering lights of the club, and beneath the short hemline of the black dress her legs are long and tan and go all the way up. She's too skinny to be pretty and there are dark lines running down the crooks of her elbows. Dean sleeps with a lot of girls but he wouldn't sleep with her, Sam knows. Dean would let her down with a thousand watt smile and joke about it with Sam and deep down inside pity her. Sam's staring at her, not a come hither stare or a come fuck me stare, just staring into the distance blankly and she happens to be in his line of sight. She smiles dreamily at him. He tries to smile back, but lately his mouth doesn't seem to work properly. The strobe flashes, and when it next hits upon them the girl is inches from Sam's body. He's sitting on his barstool looking unavailable, his fifth or sixth shot of tequila in front of him. And Dean always says he can't handle his alcohol.

The girl starts to move, dancing with him even though Sam sits perfectly still. The girl's shins knock against his barstool and she doesn't notice. She's moving slower than the music, like she's in water. Her skin is hot against his, pressing into him as close as she can get. She doesn't speak, but she's panting slightly and Sam can smell the vodka on her breath.

Sam still doesn't move, but the girl with the pale hair doesn't get bored, just keeps rubbing against him like a cat in heat. Sam thinks about sleeping with her. He could, easy enough. The girl is wasted and high and God knows what else. But even mind-blowing sex isn't enough to blow his mind nowadays, make him forget, and Sam can't muster the energy needed to initiate even one night's worth of a relationship. Eventually the song changes (another nameless dance tune that Sam doesn't recognize. The kind of music Dean calls crap and Sam argues isn't but deep down completely agrees) but the girl doesn't stop her slow, rhythmic grinding. She's all over him, hands and thighs and the feather-light ends of her pale hair. Sam doesn't look at her.

After an age the girl stumbles and half-falls into Sam's lap. He sets her up straight. Her dreamy smile goes wide, and he can see that beneath the heavy make-up and blintzed expression she has nice teeth. She has thick black eye make-up and looks older than she probably is. She looks like the corpse of a young girl. Something that needs to be salted and burned to be at peace.

All Sam thinks about nowadays is death. He goes to shit-holes like this and tries not to think, tries to drown out his memories and thoughts and fill up the deep well of despair that has hollowed out his chest. It never works. Sam can get as drunk as he wants, like he does every night. He can fall over and pass out in a wet side alley and be woken up with garbage being thrown at him by the management, like he did yesterday. He can wake up next to a girl he doesn't remember and stumble through a house full of naked bodies not knowing which one he slept with, like he did last week. He can drive the Impala into the darkness as fast as he dares and he still can't run away. Nothing works.

The girl reaches down the top of her dress, past her A-cup tits, and draws her hand back out. She holds the hand out to Sam and unfolds it with a smile. She's saying something but Sam doesn't hear a word. On top of her palm are two little white pills. She holds them out for Sam to take and he does. With another smile, the girl with the habit melts back into the crowd behind her.

Sam stares at the pills in his hand. Chalk-white and innocuous. Sam doesn't think as he knocks them back, and it's the first time in a long time that he hasn't thought about anything. He looks for something to wash them down with and finds his shot glass empty. He dry swallows and closes his eyes briefly.

There's something in the woods outside of town. Something in the woods that is tearing people open and ripping everything inside of them out. Sam isn't quite sure what it is, but he is going to kill it. He'll shoot it and hack it to pieces and salt it and burn it and never look back. It will be easy. Everything's easy nowadays.

Nothing's easy.

It's not true that all Sam thinks about is death. Mostly, he thinks about Dean. Or about not thinking about thinking about Dean. Sometimes, he thinks about all the ways he's not allowed to kill himself.

Sam knows suicide's not an option. Dean gave his life for him, and Sam's not about to spit on that. Still, he can't help but wonder. When he drives the Impala over a bridge, he thinks He could jump off. When he pulls out his hunting knife, it's He could slit his wrists and bleed out slowly, spoiled blood spilling onto the ground. When he passes the ocean, he thinks He could dive in and never come up for air.

He could hang himself from the motel ceiling fan.

He could buy a dozen feet of tubing and a roll of duct tape and rig the Impala to fill with exhaust.

He could suck on the end of pistol and put a bullet in his brain.

He could empty the first aid kit of pain killers and sleeping pills in one go.

He could drive the Impala off a cliff.

He could stick his face in the plastic take-out bag and wrap it around his neck.

He could toe the trigger of shotgun and blow the bottom half of his face away.

He could salt and burn himself.

But Sam knows he can't do any of those things.

The flashing lights are giving him a headache. Sam gets off his barstool and struggles to find some cash to pay for his drinks. He pulls a few crumpled bills too many out of his pocket, distantly wondering where his wallet is, and throws them on the countertop. He never has as much finesse as Dean does. He's never cool like his brother is. In the distance Sam can see the exit to the club, and for a moment the distance is impossible. A sea of dancing bodies stands between him and the door, and Sam clumsily pushes his way through without apologies or excuses. Eventually, he reaches the exit. The night air is shockingly cold on his face as he pushes the door open.

The stars are clear and bright and distant above him, not a cloud in the sky. Sam searches the parking lot for the Impala for ten minutes before remembering that he walked. Dean thinks he's ridiculous when he's drunk.

It's okay that the car isn't here. Sam probably shouldn't do what he's about to do in Dean's car anyway. If he crashed it, Dean would kill him.

Sam scans the possibilities before settling on a shiny red Mustang, hunched proudly on the tarmac. It's new and glossy and whoever parked it did a shitty job. Dean would call the driver a douchebag, and probably the car too.

Sam idly smashes the driver's side window with his elbow and unlocks the car. He crawls in and pulls out a hunk of twisted wire from beneath the dash. Blood drips in streaks down his arm and splatters in polka-dots on the floor mat. He fiddles with the wires. In less than a minute, the engine catches and purrs. Closing the door behind him, Sam pulls out of the parking lot onto the street. He doesn't bother with the seatbelt.

Sam coaxes the Mustang through the late-night traffic. Eventually the city streets give way to empty highway, and Sam is alone on the road. He puts his foot to the floor. The speedometer flicks up to the speed limit and passes it without a thought.

Sam goes faster and faster, seeing how much the engine's got. He wouldn't do this in the Impala, drive wasted and high and God knows what else. He wouldn't do that to Dean's baby. But he loves this.

He loves the feel of going 110 down an empty road, trees blurring past him. He loves the stripes of yellow on the road smudging into a solid line. He loves the car hurling the asphalt behind him. He loves the roar of the engine. He loves the wind blowing in through the broken window and freezing his skin. He can feel it. He loves the feeling that one twitch of the wheel and the car would skid and crash and Sam could be done with. He loves driving fast and crazy and reckless and stupid. It's odd, because nowadays Sam doesn't love anything.

The seats of the Mustang are unworn and unloved, and Sam doesn't feel bad about stealing it. Douchebag didn't deserve the car, anyway.

He feels odd. Distant and floaty, like without his seatbelt his in danger of drifting up and flying out of the window. The darkness is colorful, like rainbows on oil spills. It's nice. Nicer than anything's been since he killed his brother.

The trees begin to thicken on the side of the road, and Sam knows he's entering the forest. He drives deeper in, the trees tangled and tall and growing endlessly to either side of him. Shadows flick among the trunks, but Sam's moving too fast to see what they are or if they even exist. The headlights flash over a dirt road leading off of the highway, and Sam blasts past it, missing his exit. He drives another mile before he thinks to turn around. He slows just enough not to crash and pulls a U-ie, then picks his speed back up.

Sam darts onto the cruddy road, speed dropping to the double digits. The ride is bumpy and rocky and Sam's head crashes into the ceiling. He's not wearing his seatbelt and his ass bumps hard against the leather seat as he's jolted up and down. He's going to bruise. The trees loom monstrous and dark above him, blocking out the stars. There are shadows within shadows in the forest, night layered on night.

Sam is going to kill whatever's here. He's going to find the fucker and kill it and it will regret everything it's done to him. He can feel the booze and the pills and God knows what humming in his veins.

Something dark runs across the road in the beam of his headlights and Sam twists the wheel to avoid it.

The car jerks to the side, off the crumbling road and struggles to stay upright. It fails, and the car rolls. Ground and sky and ground and sky and ground and sky blur past Sam, and it's too dark to tell which is which. Rocks and dirt fly in the busted window, scratching his face. The car tumbles and crashes and eventually halts upside-down in the woods. Sam slams into the windshield and breaks through. Glass rains down on him, glinting like stars in the clear night sky. He flies. He lands on the hard earth with a hundred cracks and for an instant the forest is completely silent. The darkest part of the darkness creeps up and over-whelms him and Sam sinks away.

An eternity later, Sam wakes.

He hurts.

He's not sure where, but it's there. Possibly everywhere. He blinks to clear his eyes and that hurts. Eventually, he focuses. The trees are spindly silhouettes around him, the forest silent. His t-shirt is warm and sticky and clinging to his skin but the blood soaking it is slowly cooling in the night air. A dozen feet from him, the Mustang lies wounded on its back, gray undercarriage dull in the starlight. It's crumpled and broken and Sam knows exactly how it feels.

Sam thinks about getting up, and then changes his mind. His brain is fuzzy. Tequila and little white pills and concussions and God knows what else. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back to the ground. He could sleep here.

He smells him before he hears him.

"You moron," A voice calls out. "Wake up, Sam."

He hears him before he sees him.

"I know you can hear me, Sammy. Wake up, you idiot. I can't believe you'd pull a stunt like this."

Sam groans, slightly, and squints his eyes open.

He sees him.

Sam shuts his eyes again. Great, now he's crazy.

"Wake up, Sam." Dean commands.

Sam obeys.

He stares into the darkness. That is his brother crouching there, inches from him. His dead brother. Gun oil and leather and cheap deodorant and fast food and something earthy and organic and completely Dean. Gruff, deep voice filled with concern and sarcasm and something deep and unyielding that some people called love. Faded leather jacket and jeans and styled hair and green eyes looking at him. Dean is here.

"Dean." Sam gasps.

Dean smiles. "That's what they call me."

"What are you doing here?" Sam asks in confusion.

"Saving your sorry ass, obviously." Dean remarks. He rocks back on his heels.

"You can't be here, Dean." Sam points out.

"Oh, really? Why's that?" Dean's voice sounds flatly uninterested. He scans Sam's damaged body in a familiar way, examining his injuries. Sam doesn't follow his gaze, doesn't want to know how bad off he is. He doesn't care.

"Because you're dead, Dean. I sent you to hell." Sam explains.

Dean disagrees. "You didn't send me to hell, Sam."

"Yeah, I did. That's what I do. Send people I love to hell. I'm a fuck-up like that." Things go a little blurry after that, waves of pain lap untidily at Sam.

"Don't talk like that, Sam." Dean says angrily. Sam acquiesces, because he sent Dean to hell and it's the least he could do.

"You can't be here, Dean. It's not possible." There's something wrong with this, and Sam wants to figure it out.

"That's me, Dean Winchester. Pulling off the impossible. And all before a decent cup of coffee, too." Dean laughs at his own joke. His fingers ghost over Sam's hair, and began to stroke lightly, comfortingly, like he used to when Sam was a kid and scraped his knees or woke up from nightmares or got chewed up by whatever fugly bastard they were hunting at the time. Sam relaxes into the rhythmic movement, breathing in Dean's presence. Maybe Dean couldn't be here, but Sam was going to enjoy him being there anyway. He wants to melt into Dean's presence and forget everything. He wants to stop thinking. Sam's brain won't stop though, not even with his head aching and his brother back from the dead.

"Oh." Sam says. "Oh, I get it."

Dean's lips quirk. "You do?"

"Yeah," Sam nods and stops when a burst of TNT goes off in his skull.

"Good for you, Sammy-boy," Dean says in that big brother, keep-him-talking-to-distract-him-from-the-pain kind of way.

"Yeah. You're the pills. Or the booze. Or the concussion. Or God knows what." God, Sam is fucked-up. Here he is, crashing cars and hallucinating his dead brother.

"Oh, am I?" Dean smirks.

"Yep," Sam says, happy to have figured it out.

"I'm not a hallucination, Sam."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yeah, you are."

"No-- you know what? I say I'm not and I'm not. There."

"You're wrong, Dean."

"No," Dean pulls out his trump card. "I'm not. I'm the oldest, and I'm always right."

Sam sighs heavily. Dean is wrong, and like usual he won't see reason. Fine. Sam can't work in these conditions.

"Besides," Dean continues, "What's wrong with you? You think you're having a hallucination and it's not of some hot chick doing what you say? Or, you know, you doing what she says. Whatever works for you. Man, Sammy, my hallucinations would be of beaches and bikinis. You think you're hallucinating me. You're such a girl."

"Fuck you, Jerk."

"No thanks, Bitch. I'll take the bikinis."

Sam is comfortable in a way he hasn't been in forever. Dean nudges him lightly.

"Hey, what the hell is this anyway? You getting drunk enough to hallucinate, Sam? What the fuck is that shit?"

Sam doesn't know what to say.

"And drugs, Sam? Honestly, you had no idea what the fuck those pills were. LSD or PCP or roofies or whatever the fuck. You didn't even know that girl. You could be dead right now, Sam. OD'd on stupidity or unconscious with some nutjob. Jesus, kiddo. What were you thinking?"

Sam hadn't been thinking, hadn't been thinking for the first time in forever, and it had felt so damn good.

"And you stole a car. What the fuck?" Dean is ranting, Sam can feel him shaking next to him. Sam groans slightly, and Dean quiets.

"Goddammit, Sam." Dean's voice is a whisper. Distantly, Sam feels himself being lifted and pulled, until his head is resting in his brother's lap. The pain flares and diminishes with Dean's body heat.

Another eternity passes, the brothers simply quiet together. Sam stares at the crashed Mustang. He doesn't want to look at his brother. Eventually, though, words begin to claw there way up his throat and scrabble out of his mouth, hurting and sharp and feral.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam rushes, "I'm sorry, I'm so damn sorry. I'm sorry for the drinking and the drugs and the car and putting you in hell. I'm sorry I killed you."

Sam is sobbing. He realizes it when his throat tightens and he can barely breathe. Dean's arms clench tight around him.

"Hey, hey, easy bro." He murmurs.

"I'm sorry," Sam cries brokenly, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"Hey, Sammy, it's okay, stop."

But it isn't okay. And Sam can't stop.

Eventually the words disintegrate into tears and pants as Sam tries to catch his breath. He doesn't deserve to breathe, though. Doesn't deserve to be held by his brother. Doesn't deserve to dirty and defile Dean with Sam's demon-blood. Dean doesn't deserve that. Not even a hallucination of Dean deserves that. Dean holds him tighter, stroking Sam's shaggy hair back from his pale skin. Tears are leaving snail's tracks down Sam's cheeks, and Dean wipes one away with his thumb.

"I'm sorry," Sam manages to whimper.

"Shhhh…" Dean says. Sam's eyes are red and puffy, his face swollen, and he is all snot and tears and panic. There's nothing noble or beautiful in this, nothing romanticized in his tears. Just ugly crying.

Dean begins to hum. And nothing else matters and Everything still turns to gold and May God bless and keep you always. Lifetimes pass, and Sam grows quiet. The music is his favorite lullaby, it always has been. The trees rock in the wind far above them, and something moves distantly in the darkness. Dean continues to soothingly stroke Sam's hair, and his fingers come away red. All Sam can think of is his infected blood staining Dean's white hands.

"You have to get up, Sammy," Dean says. Sam doesn't want to.

Dean shakes him gently. Sam hurts.

"I'm sorry," His brother breathes. "But you have to get up."

"Are you going to leave, Dean?" Sam asks softly, not wanting to hear the answer. Dean is going to leave him again. Sam knows it.

Dean smiles sadly, "You have to get up, Sam."

"Why are you here, Dean?" Sam asks tiredly.

Dean doesn't answer any of his questions.

"Get up, Sam." He commands.

"Why do you keep saying that?" Sam groans.

Dean's eyes are flint. "There's something in the woods."

"Yes," Sam agrees. Something that claws people open and turns them inside-out. Something that splits people open and yanks their intestines out onto the pine-needle strewn ground. Something Sam was going to kill.

Sam's breath quickens.

"Get up," Dean orders.

Sam obeys.

He struggles to his feet, clenching his teeth together to keep from biting his tongue. His fingers dig into his palms. Dean helps him up. He is shaking and leaning on his brother. Sam still doesn't know where he's hurt. He doesn't want to. It's bad-- he can see that in Dean's eyes and in the flurries of pain that course up and down his body. He tries to focus on one and it flits away and blends in with a million others. He hurts.

Something is still moving in the forest, coming closer. It prowls quietly, but not quietly enough for Sam not to hear. His dad taught him well.

Dean taught him better.

"Good boy," Dean says proudly as Sam stands unsteadily on his feet. He sways when Dean moves away and instantly his brother is back, holding him up.

"Dean," Sam pants out through his gritted jaw.

Dean's hand is tight on Sam's arm, holding him steady. "Yeah, Sammy?"

"It's coming."

Dean nods. "I know."

Sam has a gun under his jacket. He wears it everywhere, nowadays. He used to only go armed when he and Dean were hunting. Nowadays he is always hunting.

Sam's fingers tremble as he pulls the handgun out of its holster. Dean watches him, green eyes glinting in the dark. He aims it into the nothing. The dark plays tricks on him, and he sees a million monsters lurking in the blackness. Dean's grip on him tightens.

"Easy," He says.

Sam tries to take a step forward and stumbles. Dean catches him. They are sitting ducks in the dark, Sam unable to run. They have six bullets. Sam can't remember what they're made of, but he hopes that whatever it is, it's enough.

"What is it?" Sam asks Dean, his voice quiet.

Dean shifts behind him. "And another thing, Sam. Not doing research before a hunt? So not cool, little brother."

"What is it?" Sam asks again, insistently.

Dean sighs. "You don't want to know."

Sam's not going to stop asking until he finds an answer. They both know it. Dean sighs again. "It's something bad, Sam. Something old and bad that just woke up. And it's hungry."

Before Sam can ask But what is it? Dean cuts him off. "It's too old for names, Sam. But it's not too old to kill."

For the life of him, Sam doesn't know if Dean means for them to kill it or for it to kill them.

Something howled, eerie and high. Other-worldly. Right next to them.

Simultaneously, the brothers tense. Dean's mouth moves a hairsbreadth from Sam's ear and he whispers, "Aim for the heart."

By the time Sam starts shooting, his just trying to hit it at all.

It comes at them fast. For an instant, the rustling stops and the woods fall quiet. Sam notices it because suddenly he can hear Dean's heartbeat, quick and warm from behind him. He counts two beats before the silence is shattered.

It lunges from between trees, massive and black, a shadow among the shadows. Its eyes glow hotly red, and there is intelligence lurking behind its scarlet irises. Its jaws snap, tongue lolling, spit flying and it gives a howl that shakes Sam's bones. Its fangs are jagged and uneven and too big for its mouth. It is wolfish and unearthly, something Sam's never seen before and hopes to God he never sees again. Its fur is black, long at the nape of it's neck and shaggy all over, its legs long and thin. It's the size of a horse, maybe, with protruding ribs and bony hips and a swollen belly. Huge and terrifying. A tufted tail swings behind it, and sharp shiny claws reflect the dim starlight dangerously. It is ancient and primal and wicked, a lurking monstrosity that nature forgot. Doomed to only haunt nightmares. Until something woke it up.

Sam takes this all in in a glance, an instant. The thing springs towards them, front claw extended, and he fires off two shots. The bullets go wide from his shaking hands and the thing slams into him and his brother, knocking them to the ground. Dean is screaming in his ear and Sam can't make out what he's saying.

The monster flies over them without breaking stride. It spins around, four paws crossing each other in a tangle, and snarls at Sam. Ass on the ground and weight on his hands behind him, Sam tries to scramble away. There's nowhere to run.

The thing howls again. And Sam is afraid.

He is going to die in these woods, drunk and high and completely forgotten. It seems oddly fitting for the man that killed off everybody he loves.

The monster charges towards him. Sam closes his eyes.

Dean's fingers wrap around Sam's hands on the gun, pulling it up. He squeezes Sam's index finger into the trigger, and shoots.

The thing is a foot from Sam when the bullet hits, splattering black oily blood across Sam. It falls to the ground and shrieks.

Dean is pulling him up. The thing is twitching on its side, legs peddling into the empty air. Its eyes are following Sam. It begins to struggle to its feet.

Numbly, Sam feels his brother raises Sam's gun hand again and fire off another shot. This one hits were it's supposed to, and the thing jerks and stops moving. It's eyes stay open, boring into Sam's soul. Dark blood pools out from beneath it, staining Sam's sneakers.

The forest is silent again. Dean's heart is beating out of time with his, discordant in the quiet. He counts twenty-two heartbeats, this time. The uneasy staccato distantly reassures Sam as he falls to his knees.

The blood on him is warm again. He grasps his stomach and flinches when he looks at his red hands. The blood pools in the cracks on his palms and under his nails, his own red mixing with the monster's inky black.

Dean is next to him, hand on his shoulder. "You did good, Sammy."

Sam doesn't feel like he did good.

Dean is rubbing small aimless patterns on Sam's back. Sam leans over and pukes in the dirt. In the corner of his vision, he imagines the monster coming to life and tearing his and Dean's guts out. It doesn't move.

The bile is hot and sour and burns the back of his throat and all the way up to his tongue. Dean is whispering reassurances for the hundredth time that night and Sam idly wonders if he should be doing that. After all, Dean's the one in hell.

More time passes, and Sam thinks morning must be coming soon. The night never changes.

He hurts. Dean hauls him to his feet.

"It's okay, bro. It's over." It's never over. It never will be over, because Dean's dead and Sam still can't fucking die.

Dean tilts Sam's head so Sam's looking him in the eyes. "Sam."

Sam swallows hard.

"Go to the road, Sam. You need help."

Sam nods. Dean eases away so they can begin walking and Sam collapses to the ground. Dean catches him just before he hits. Sam whimpers in pain.

"Okay, easy there. You can do this, Sam." Sam can't do this. That's what Dean never gets. That's what Dean never got, when he was still alive and prepared to die for Sam and leave him all alone. Sam can't function without Dean. It's simple as that. All the good parts of Sam were ripped away and he was left with only the polluted wreckage that he is nowadays. His lungs were ripped out and everybody told him to keep breathing. Nobody got that. Dean never got that.

"One step at a time," Dean says cheerily, and guides him into walking.

Sam moans with the first step as the pain hits him hard and fast. Dean is there next to him, never wavering.

It's funny, what with Sam's thoughts nowadays he expects his hallucination to be less chipper. He doesn't expect Dean to help him, he expects him to damn him. Like Sam always does to himself nowadays.

They stumble through the forest, over rotting fallen logs and sharp rocks and the dips and curves of the earth. They are going slowly, ever so slowly, and Sam is barely making it. Dean is humming again, Lots of people out to make-believe they're livin' and Everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky and We kill with the skill to survive.

The rhythm blots out the pain of each step. Dean is breathing steadily next to him, and Sam tries to match his own breaths to him. Most of the time he fails, his breaths panting and hitched.

The trees open up to the road. They stop. Sam stands in the open, confused.

Dean tells him what he already knows. "You have to go, Sammy."

He grips Dean's jacket, fingers twisting the leather tightly.

Dean points down the dirt road. "Walk that way. You'll get help. You'll be okay, dude."

"Stay with me," Sam begs.

Dean looks into his eyes. Dean's own are deep and endless and Sam wonders when they got so fucking full of wisdom, or if they were always that way and he just never noticed.

"Sammy, you have to go on your own." That hurts. More than the car accident. More than him steadily bleeding onto the dirt road.

"I can't go without you." Sam's voice breaks. Dean is dead. He's not here. And he's not coming back.

Dean smiles at him. He doesn't say anything, but one hand squeezes his shoulder tightly. He orders, "Walk, Sam."

Sam obeys.

With Dean, he never had a choice.

Unsteadily, he sets out on the road. He looks back after every step to see Dean still standing there. Dean nods. Then he holds up one hand and waves. The wind picks up and ruffles through his short hair, catching the edges of his jacket and pulling his jeans tight against him. Sam stares at his brother smiling encouragingly at him.

"Go on, Sammy!" Dean commands, and goes back to humming, shifting on his feet. My mind was aching and I'm in no hurry and If I had a choice, I would stay.

Sam steps forward, and when he turns to look back Dean is gone. He sways in the wind and collapses to the ground. Faintly, he's aware of the yellow glow of headlights sweeping over him, the screech of brakes and the slamming of car doors and panicky Oh my Gods! swelling up in his mind. Footsteps rush towards him.

Dean is gone.

Even Sam's hallucinations have left him. He is alone.

Gently, the wind hums to him. I can't get no satisfaction and I ain't no fortunate son and I've had my share of sand kicked in my face.

He feels people turning him over and picking him and carrying him into a car, but he doesn't say a word. Nowadays, he doesn't talk much.

Dean is gone. Sam is going to have to live with that.

The wind rises to the howl of a primeval monster and Sam fades into the black.