Author's Note: I'm sorry it took so long for me to post the last part of this story. I struggled so much with the ending, and trying not to write in spoilers for the upcoming season (Can't wait!!!!). Don't worry, there are none. Then, technical difficulties with delayed things even more. I hope this ending works. Let me know what you think.

They couldn't take Sam to a hospital, not with his eyes flickering demon black and car rattling with more than just windshear. They had no choice but to hole up in a motel and try to get Sam through it. Dean nursed Sam through the trip, triaging what he could, holding him through the tremulous pain.

Bobby had found a motel that rented cabins just outside of Pennsylvania, and together, they got Sam inside the meager cabin with two big beds, a small kitchenette and a bathroom.

Dean knelt on the bed, wiping Sam down with a cool cloth, humming through pressed lips. He washed off the dirt and blood, the grime of evil as Sam slept, wracking by sporadic tremors. The wounds had been cleaned and bandaged, the swelling limbs were being methodically iced, and Bobby had even performed a roadside exorcism just to cover the bases. But no amount of latin would protect Sam from his internal demons over what he had done or what was done to him.

Sam's prideful determination to save the world did the exact opposite, and although Dean numbly wondered how the fallout would unspool, he couldn't muster up a shred of hostility because Sam was dying.

Dean knew it with every fiber of his being. He knew it as sure as he knew that a ten-year-old Sammy would tower well over six feet. He knew it like he knew the all of Sam's infinite expressions and smiles and grimaces. The welts on his back, his jaggedly torn wrists, the broken rib, the swollen, dislocated shoulders, and the dehydration were the worst of it—Sam had survived much worse—but he was getting weaker, fevering raging through him, pain savaging him.

Sam was a warrior as he had been raised to be, and getting injured was one of the only guarantees a hunter had. He'd locked eyes with Dean, one hand gripping the sheets, fighting weakness and infection just as hard as monsters and spirits.

This wasn't happening now. And Dean was helpless.

Bobby sat down at Sam's side, fingers on his wrist. "He's a little roughed up," Bobby said softly, "but he's gonna be fine." It was the fifth time he'd said that in an hour.

Dean twitched in the quiet, restless and terrified. "Yeah, of course," he dubiously agreed.

Bobby didn't know about Ruby or the double-cross and he didn't have the words or the strength to tell him what Sam had done to himself in the process. He hadn't even processed it. Instead, he shooed Bobby into the other bed and fussed over his Sam's still form. Sam was unconscious, but not at rest, face awash with residual pain, eyelids fluttering like they did when he had nightmares. Dean rubbed his hands on his jeans, and cracked his knuckles before he gently placed his hand on his swollen shoulders, then feathered his fingers through his hair. Sam's eyes slid open, wet and dark blue framed by streaks of red.

Dean managed a smile. "Hey, Sammy. You're safe now."

Sam simply stared, lifelessly.

"They were punishing you…because of me. I saw…what they were doing to do, but you survived it, man. They won't hurt you anymore."

A spasm rippled down Sam's entire body. He grunted against the involuntary movement, tears seeping out of his eyes as he closed them. His Adam's apple bobbed as he sharply inhale, reacting to pain. Sam lifted his swollen, discolored arm, waving Dean over with a subtle flutter of bloated fingers. Once Dean close, Sam fisted his shirt, reeling him in until Dean was perched over him, lips pressed to his ear. The voice was a barely discernable whisper, but was saturated with unadulterated horror. "They weren't punishin'….they were thankin' me…for freein' him."

Dean's legs disappeared beneath him, cut down by Sam's confession, the realization that the world was now forever changed and it was a direct result of their actions, their passions. He lowered himself down until his knees slammed against the floor. He rubbed Sam's hot cheeks with his cold hands, hoping to freeze away the fever, absorb the weakness. "I don't care what they said, Sammy. You saved my life, and we can finish this. Together." Sam's head lulled on the pillow, and picked up the cup of crushed, icy water and the spoon. "I need you to fight, to get better, okay?" He tapped Sam's lips, waiting for him to open. He merely turned his head away.

Sam looked to his brother with a loaded, heavy glance. "I'm tired, Dean." He panted.

Dean ignored the defeat glinting in his eyes, the black despair in his stomach, and clung to the steely determination that had kept his brother breathing for twenty-seven tumultuous years.

"You just need some water, good drugs, maybe a sponge bath by a naughty nurse, and you'll be good as new." Knowing Sam was too weak to stop him, Dean pushed himself up onto the bed, sweeping Sam's head up with one hand. Gently, he squeezed his cheeks, and force-fed him the ice chips. If Sam couldn't fight, Dean would fight for him.

**

Ten hours gone, and Sam's color had improved, but his lucidity was worsening. He mumbled nonsense, eyes tracking demons and monsters that Dean couldn't see. He'd pushed over the curtains, and sat by the bed, watching Sam stare listlessly at the silver sky and cobblestone clouds. His fingers curled in Sam's hair, tracing patterns, sigils of protection and hope. Dean lifted his slacken head as Sam pointed in the corner at nothing.

"What, Sam?" he asked intently.

His little brother licked his lips, shaking constantly now. "Jess."

"What's she doing?"

"…burnin'…" was the horrified whisper.

With gruff determination, Dean followed Sam's haunted gaze and parked himself directly in front of it, hopefully cutting off Sam's hallucination. He caught Sam's wildly unfocused eyes and tried to hold them on his. Denying the ghosts only agitate Sam more, distraction was his best option. "Tell me something about her, something I don't know. Keep it clean, though, I know how you like to over-share."

Sam exhaled, sharply and painfully, his breathing was labored and dragging, but he followed through. "She…took me home…for Thanksgivin'…I told 'er…I loved her…when she was stuffin' the turkey. No make-up…and sweats…she was so…beautiful."

"Hands up a turkey's ass, huh?" Dean laughed mirthlessly. "That's a classic, Romeo."

"Her mom…was ri' there. Took pics." Sam almost smiled; Dean saw the glint in his eyes. And that fueled him more than sleep or water or food. "Turkey was nasty…though. Never told 'er."

Dean laughed wholeheartedly. "That's why you've never told me that story. I didn't know there was photographic proof of how emo you are."

The meager light was snuffed out of his face, leaving him once again pale and drawn beneath the bruises. "Dean…"

"Shuttup, Sam."

"…please…jus' lemme explain…"

"I'm really not up to hearing last rites. Save your breathe and tell me later."

"…I didn't know…that killing Lil…"

Dean shushed him with a loving glare. "I know, Sammy," he whispered. "Right now, I just need you to focus all that girly energy on getting better. We can work it all out, but you have to be alive to do it."

Sam's eyes closed, "…you need to know…" he mumbled, fingers digging lightly at Dean's shirt as he tried stave off sleep, "blood…on my hands…" he whispered before he head lolled, eyes fluttered closed.

Dean sighed when his body loosened with sleep. His fever was hot and holding, and he was backsliding. Bobby was out securing their tiny cabin, and looking for a cleansing spell he was certain would help Sam. He climbed into bed. Gingerly, he placed a pillow in his lap, shifted Sam he was propped up on the pillow on his side. The wounds stripping his back were an angry crimson slathered in antibacterial cream, but they were no longer weeping or oozing. One tiny battle he didn't have to fight.

With a hand on Sam's chest, he braced himself against the headboard, bone-tired but unable to sleep. He closed his eyes, stilling his mind and thought about healing. He envisioned all of his energy and strength and love funneling down through his arm and into his brother. Just as he was about to laugh deliriously from the irony, a cryptic cold flashed through him as he felt a divine vibration in his chest. He jerked his head up, squinting at Castiel, who looked surprisingly uncrispified from his confrontation with Chuck's archangel.

"Wow, go head to head with wrath, and all you got were wrinkles in your trenchcoat." Dean clucked with more relief than spite.

"I'm afraid we have failed."

"Understatement of the millennium."

Castiel cocked his head at the sight of Sam, broken and wheezing, pillowed in his brother's lap. Dean had forgotten how the angel moved with such divine precision and surefooted steps. He hovered over Sam, looking faintly worried and shocked. Hesitantly, he pressed those two foreboding fingers to his forehead, downloading his misery. "He is not well." Castiel announced ominously.

Dean hacked a dry laugh. "I don't need magic fingers to know that, Cas. Seems your boss likes water-boarding just as much as McCain. They tortured him. For DAYS."

He nodded knowingly. "To make you atone. Dean, I apologize it came to this." Castiel was still and silent for a long moment, the twilight spiraling around him like a silver lining, and Dean watched as he palmed Sam's head gently, fingers disappearing into sweaty hair, and closed his eyes in focus. Sam's breaths hitched, body stiffening, but he relaxed within seconds, snuffling into the pillow. "I cannot heal him, but I have blocked his pain. Rest will help."

"Thank you," Dean said, his voice low with desperation.

Castiel turned away from him, back to Dean, hands clasped behind him, like he was waiting to be handcuffed. "Do not thank me, Dean. I fear my actions have only steered your brother closer to his foreseen goal. I cannot help him as much as I would like."

Sam's heartbeat was stronger beneath his hand, and he'd clung to whatever scraps of optimism he could find. "This is good. This is good," Dean muttered. "Can I ask you something that won't get me tossed back in Heaven's padded room?"

Castiel stood ominously at the foot of the bed, and nodded.

"Sam's…circlin' the drain. He's up against a lot here…" Dean licked his lips, and hated toying with the idea that was blossoming—the fruit of his cloying terror. "If Sam was…addicted to something, hypothetically, would he get better if he got what he was jonesin' for? Can you look in your divine crystal ball maybe?"

The face of the once impassive Castiel, but the corner of his mouth twitched and he glowered at the older Winchester, eyes glittering and dark. "The…demon blood or lack of it isn't killing him. He is changed now."

Dean shook his head, adamant. "But he's crackin' out again. He's seeing Jess and Dad and Alastair, just like before…in the panic room. It would help him survive, right?"

"I have learned," Castiel began, voice rich like honey, "that while Heaven has greatly underestimated the will of the human spirit, it can break…and it can be broken. Some burdens are too heavy to carry, Dean. Some happenings cannot be survived."

That single statement scared Dean more than the wraths of Heaven, of Hell, of Lucifer. He clutched Sam tighter, somewhat reassured by the placid expression on his face. His tired eyes flickered to the angel, electrified by the literal hell of the past years. He was nearly broken by his role in the apocalypse, and he understood shattering beneath the weight, but higher powers had intervened, wiping his memory so he could re-discover his love for the hunt and how much he needed, loved and trusted Sam, despite how hardened his death had made him. Dean didn't think the soldiers of Heaven would conjure alternate realities for Sam. All he had left was Dean, and his infarmous tenacity.

"Sam hasn't wanted anything in his life, but to be normal. To go to work and have a home to at the end of his nine-to-five. That's it! Instead, he gets to grow up without a mother. With demon-blood running through this veins. With a drill saegerent for a father and a deadbeat for a brother! He goes to college and the woman he loves gets a slash-and-burn on the ceiling for her troubles. In the last year, I died while he was some pawn used by angels and demons alike, and you wonder why he's giving up." Dean raged. "Everything he ever believed in was taken from him including his faith in God and Heaven. Don't you dare stand there and talk to me about the human spirit, you black-winged sonofabitch!"

"Dean," Castiel began, still eerie kempt and steady.

He scuffed a hand over his short hair and dropped his head to focus on Sam's s sleeping face. "Just go, Cas."

Dean's head snapped up when he heard a chair scuffing the floor as he placed it next to the bed. Castiel robotically removed his trenchcoat and fold it over the back of the chair. He sat stiffly, palms flat against his thighs, back straight as an arrow. "I have learned," he rasped, "that sometimes it is better not to follow the order at hand." He met Dean's eyes, and they flickered with defiance.

Dean huffed a breath, irritated but quietly relieved that if Sam died, he'd have one decent angel by his side. "Out of all the things you could learn from me, that's what sticks?"

**

Six more hours gone, and Castiel's angelic morphine had worn off, leaving Sam drenched in agony and completely conscious. The sheets and blankets had been discarded, and Dean paced the room, unable to touch him because Sam had woken up, screaming from the pressure on his skin. Sam was on his side, clutching a pillow under his cheek. Every exhale was a wet huff of agony that made Dena's stomach clench sympathetically. His death had been a few seconds of tearing, unimaginable pain. But Sam's was deliberate and methodical, organs shutting down like that of an old man. His skin was dusky and waxy, as he was too dehydrated to sweat, and refused water. Dean brain ran through any and every supernatural option—hoo doo, black magick, witchcraft. He was ready to try them all if it kept Sam breathing.

Castiel stood in the corner, visibly stricken behind the stony features.

Dean focused on the angel. He hadn't slept in nearly two days, and felt dirty and ragged. "Cas, please. Whatever you did before, do it again!"

"It will not stop the inevitable, Dean."

"Then help me. Can you…can you get through to him? Can you talk to him?" Although Sam was awake, he was unresponsive.

"I do not…I do not think that is wise."

"You can send me back in time, spring me out of the pit, do battle with archangels, but you can't do this?" Dean snarled, desperate.

"You do no need to know what your brother is going through." Castiel resigned.

"I'm not Helen Keller here. Cas, please!"

Castiel picked up the bottles of morphine and other drugs, holding them out with child-like confusion. "You have your drugs."

Dean shook his head, ignoring the wetness and heat in his eyes. "Those will surpress his breathing. They'll kill him."

Castiel set the viles in his hand. "He is suffering, Dean."

Dean barked, pacing, "What is with people tellin' me to off my brother!"

Castiel was unaffected by Dean's disgusted outrage. "I have seen much suffering in my years, Dean. It all ends the same."

"Not this time, it doesn't. I'll figure something out," Dean announced, "I always have before."

Sam buckled, then, body snapping like a whip, toes curling, eyes rolling back. He lay, arched and gagging for a moment before he felt limp, breath leaving him like with fatal finality. Dean's head whipped towards the bed, eyes locked on Sam's chest that wasn't rising, meaning his heart didn't beat. "Sammy…" In one large step, Dean was at his brother's side.

Dumbfounded, he shook him as if he would wake up. As Sam's lips flushed a dusky grey, ebbing towards blue, Dean Winchester screamed, raw and sorrowful, carrying all of the love he had for his brother. In a blur of movements, he pushed Sam on his back, flinging the pillow aside. He tipped Sam's head back and breathed for him, two sharp, full breaths before he started compressions, ignoring the give and eventual snap-pop of his little brother's ribs as he forced his heart to beat.

The first time Dean laid eyes on Sam, he was so amazed by the confusing, pink bundle in his his mother's arms. Sam was small with a shock of dark hair and sapphire eyes that locked on Dean's as soon as they opened. At four years old, Dean fell in love with the weird creature that was impossibly alive and kinda magical. Twenty-seven years later, Dean stared into his brother's face as life drained out of it, those same eyes, lazily open but unseeing and empty like slate blue marbles. His hair was matted with blood and wet with sweat. Out of all of the ways for Sam to die, this death wasn't what any of them had pictured. He refused to give in for a second, and let his brother slip away in a rickety cabin with a guilty conscious and the scent of sulfur on his skin. Out of breath and inches away from hysterica, Dean turned to Castiel, face tight and angry and covered in tears. Sam rocked boneless beneath him as Dean thrust downwards, ignoring the snap of another rib. "Castiel. PLEASE! Sam doesn't deserve to die like this! Please, Cas, HELP ME." He pleaded before he pinched Sam's nose, mouth covering his brother's and infusing him with everything he had left.

**

Throughout his life, Sam relished in the mundane and decidedly normal parts of life that didn't influence life and death, didn't push the dizzying domino-effect of tragedy or triumph. He took pleasure in taking out the trash, sorting his mail, doing laundry, walking through parks, enjoying a good sandwich. So it wasn't a surprise that his heaven was a simple run on a ivory beach next to a frothy white gray ocean. The only surprise came from the fact that Sam was IN Heaven. After all he'd done, he didn't deserve it.

Sam breathed in the air that rushed against his face, cool and fresh, smelling of ocean and salt. He could hear the waves crashing on the beach. Feel the wet sand between his toes. He ran, swift with long strides, never getting winded, but feeling the tingle of adrenaline just the same. There was no end to the blanket beaches of white that sparkled in light that came from all around. There were no demons, no angels, no double-cross, no catastrophic betrayal to carry like a cross on his back.

Sam was finally free.

He ran, gliding so fast he felt like he could just life off, take flight. He knew he'd eventually find Jessica and his mother, maybe even his father. But Sam was patient, and relished in the swelling freedom of nothingness. No expectations. No lives to save. No one to let down or let die.

"You cannot run forever, Sam Winchester." Castiel's melodic voice reverberated over the rush of the ocean.

To his left, there was Castiel, matching his long-limbed sprint in a surefooted stroll. His arms were behind his back, ever-present trenchcoat gone.

"You have to make a choice," Castiel said, mysteriously.

Sam ignored him and continued running, absorbing the peace that had eluded him since the fire lifetimes ago that stole the love of his life and set him on the course to the darkness he'd fought tooth and nail to avoid.

"I choose here," Sam said, confident.

Castiel observed the heaven of his making. "Your brother was in a place like this. He did not like it as much as you. But I suppose you two are very different."

"My brother?" Sam parroted, and immediately felt guilty that he hadn't thought of him yet. "Where is Dean?"

Castiel squinted ahead. "You left him behind."

Sam grimaced, but he didn't slow down. "I'm sparing him from killing me himself."

The angel nodded in more understanding than agreement. "Dean will not be overjoyed to learn of your misguided actions, but he already knows the worst, and yet he still fights for you. He sees the good in you."

Sam scoffed as a familiar hate flared within him. He didn't think he could bring the loathing here, but Heaven was just as flawed and muddy as life. "Do you?"

Castiel placed a hand on Sam's shoulder and he skidded in the sand he could no longer see. The shifting din of the ocean ceased, and the peace he once appreciated was nothing more than disheartening, lonely quiet. His Heaven was disappearing. "I see that you fought relentlessly to achieve the right thing, and you were ready to sacrifice yourself for the greater good. Despite the outcome, your heart is good, Samuel."

"And yet the world's still gonna end, because of me."

"Not if you fight to right your wrongs," Castiel countered intensely. He stared out into the invisible waters, the wind feathering through his hair and announced, "I have a job for you, Sam Winchester."

Sam gasped, incredulous. "I'm the boy with the demon blood, Cas, remember?"

Castiel circled him, arms crossed over his chest. "Dean's purpose was not to stop the Lucifer's rising, but to kill him once he did. It is only a matter of time before the other side learns of your brother's destiny, and the hunter will become the hunted."

"What do you need me to do?"

"You need to protect your brother with your life. You are uniquely qualified for this position."

"… I thought using the blood was a sin."

Castiel shook his head slowly. "I am not referring to Azazel's gifts. I am referring to the love you have for him. Warriors can fight, but they must carry passion for what they are fighting for. You have no longer have faith in much but I see your faith in Dean."

"I just needed to make sure he was safe…before I could…do what he couldn't…the world safer without me. Like my dad said." Sam dropped his knees, gutted and weary after a lifetime of grief and suffering. He risked one last question, taking advantage of Castiel's uncanny honesty. "Do you think he still has faith in me?"

Castiel knelt in front of him, full of light and truth. "If he did not, I would not be here."

Sam was motionless for a long moment, not contemplating, just memorizing the place where Jessica was just over the horizon, waiting for him, all open heart and sunny spirit. He needed to remember it, so he could find it again.

"We do not have much time. I need an answer, Sam."

"He died for me," Sam stood up and regarded the angel with a strength he didn't have, strength that was coming from Dean, "I can live for him."

Inexplicably, Sam was thrashing in the ocean he couldn't see. But the once placid waves he'd heard were anything but, the water was angry and violent, dark and so cold, he felt his lungs seize up within him and his limbs prickle with icy heat—the numbness spreading in his limbs like a poison. He had no bearings as he was dashed and launched head over heels, but Sam knew Dean was waiting for him, and so he fought and swam, stroking towards his true north.

He surfaced to a battered body drenched in pain, blanketed in weakness and an unbearable pressure in his chest. Dean's face warbled and swam above him before collapsed ontop of him, face pressed against his shoulder. Dean was sputtering, crying openly with breath he didn't seem to have. Wearily, Sam patted Dean's hip, unable to lift his arms.

Dean was a blur of moment Sam couldn't follow, but feel.

Dean scooped him off the pillow, clutching Sam to him with a grip that was tender, but fierce. "I broke your ribs, Sammy. I'm sorry." He pulled back to stared in his brother's glassy eyes.

"…s'okay…set Lucifier free…"

Sam wasn't surprised when Dean launched into delerious laughter, pushing the hair off his face. "I started it…"

**

Three days after Sam Winchester died for the second time, twenty-three electric storms charged across the country, striking trees and cars and killing thirty-seven people.

Six days later, the temperature in Anarctica dropped a staggering forty degrees.

Eights days after that, no babies were born in Germany, Morocco, the state of Florida, or Greenland.

The apocalypse, Castiel explained, was not an instantaneous event, but a gradual crawl into mayhem and chaos and evil.

Through it all, Dean took care of Sam, holding him when painkillers gave him no relief, when the world was literally burning around him. He'd never said a negative word about what Sam had done, just continued his trademark sarcasm, despite the palpable fear and his own exhaustion. He took care of Sam until he dropped, slumped over in a chair or flopped over his bed.

Everyone, even the wise Bobby Singer, thought Sam and Dean's love was some magical, divine connection that was inexplicable, as it was rare. Sam knew better. It was forged out of dogged years of battling evil, watching your only and literal brother in arms cheat death time after time. It was toughened by inexplicable tragedy and loss. It was absolutely neccesary, and sometimes the only reason for survival. Their love was snarled and griseled and indestructible, because it had to be.

It was what powered Dean through 40 years of Hell. It was what pulled Sam from an eternity of Heaven.

Sam wasn't worthy of that love anymore.

Sam leaned against the Impala, dark glasses over his eyes. The long sleeves of his shirt covered the tell-tale webbing of chainlink scars that earned him abhorrence among angels and admiration among demons. With that black-eyed respect, he could walk a fine line, a tightrope between Heaven and Hell. Hunters believed that Sam Winchester had finally gone darkside, and the gossip crossed over to the supernatural side. No one who knew the truth bothered right it. Because Sam could infiltrate nests, killing the clusters of demons that rose to celebrate their father's resurrection, and kill Dean. Dean clapped his brother on the shoulder as he left the motel, flipping off the oblivious cops in the front of the building. Sam wordlessly climbed into the Impala and folded his long and lean frame into the passenger seat. Dean tore away from the house as the windows shattered and fire licked outward, tasting the air.

Dean whooped, high on adrenaline of their latest police evasion and the rumble of the Impala. He found joy in whatever he could. Sam, felt the same endorphins, but he was quieter now, all emotions turned inward. Dean didn't seem to mind, he was loud enough for the both of them, but he called him "Terminator" and "Arnie" whenever Sam got too quiet.

They tore out of the countryside, and drove through the dark until they hit moonless coast. Sam took watch while Dean slept, shotgun over his shoulder, sigils on the windows. His fingers slid under the seat, brushing the simple tin box and he pulled it out, rifling through what once were scavnenged treasures from the fire, but were now gut-wrenching reminders of who he was and what'd become. He fingered the singed, lacy garter Jess had worn at a Stanford formal, remembering her silver dress, and the sparkle in her eye when she saw him in his tuxedo. He brushed his fingers over the marbled beads that were once a bracelet. She bought it for him during a trip to South America.

Sam could barely remember that person anymore. The guy who had mastered most weapons by seventeen, but couldn't talk to a pretty girl without blushing. The guy who could stupidly thought evil would remain in the shadows and the hunters, the only uncles he'd ever had, would keep it in check. That Sam seemed lifetimes away, a vague mirage. He was barely human now. He could smell demons approaching, see their true, profoundly ugly faces. If he got angry, his eyes filled with darkness tinged with red, and he knew—from Bobby's horror-struck reaction—that his eyes were demon-black. Sam could control his telekinesis like a third hand. But his hands shook when he drew devil's traps or handled holy water, belying the evil inside of him. Sam closed his eyes, hating himself so much that he burned and choked with it. He wished he find a spell and go back to that horrible night in Cold Oak , die again and stay dead. Or maybe back to the night he'd left for Stanford, but instead he'd get off the bus and continue hunting.

"Stop it, Sam," Dean mumbled from the back seat. "Your brooding never fixed anything."

The despair was monstrous, the only thing he couldn't kill, and in the quiet, still moments, he couldn't escape it. Sam packed away his trinkets, making a mental note to burn them later. "Neither did denial," Sam said gruffly.

"I don't need to hear it. I lived it."

Sam squinted to see Dean's face in the rear view mirror. It was lighter now, the air grainy the burgeoning light. Darkness abating.

"I killed a woman," he blurted out. "..she was possessed, but the demon went…AWOL, hid inside her head somewhere…but I let it happen anyway, then I drained her like a juicebox. She was a nurse. She had a family."

Dean clenched his jaw, chin trembling. "That all?"

The love Dean had for Sam wasn't fair. Dean would never give up on him, and the notion that was once comforting and fortifying was now terrifying. Sam was at least part evil, and now that he was dedicated to protecting his brother, a large part of him was terrified that dark part of him would overtake him completely. Dean deserved better.

"Why are you acting like you don't care?"

"Because in the grand scheme of things, it's not important. Nurse Nancy was possessed and hovering around babies. Whether the thing was dormant or not, we killed possessed humans all the time. What matters is figuring out how we're going to end Lucifer forever. I can't think about anything else than that, Sam."

"I should disgust you."

"You don't."

"You should hate me."

"I can't."

"Why NOT?" Sam's voice rattled inside the car, and he felt the crackle behind his eyes, and the heat flushing his cheeks. He groped for his sunglasses.

"Because that's what they want! Our entire lives have been some giant cosmic joke. Don't you get that? I was up in Heaven's Moonbounce of Doom and Zachariah laid it all out for me. The other side has been trying to pull us apart for years, and when they do, evil wins a little bit more," Dean's eyes flashed in the twilight. "Sam, and as much as I hate what you did, as much as I want to kick your ass, you're still my brother. And I love you. And that's why I can still fight. That's what we're fighting for!"

"It can't be that simple."

"We're staring down the end of the world, dude. Yes, it can."

"You're such a jerk," Sam said fondly.

"I'm adorable," Dean grinned obnoxiously, moving to the front seat. The world may be ending, but Dean would never change. Sam found an unbelievable amount of comfort and encouragement in that.

The sun rose. And they watched it side by side. Sam's breath caught at the sight of a glittering white beach, milky sunlight slicing through ivory clouds. Sam slipped off his sunglasses, knowing the sight and suddenly energized that that tiny piece of serenity could still be found in the midst of such a bleak reality. The sun was rising on a day that decidedly wasn't Judgement Day, and Sam drew strength from that. He'd have another day to save lives, erase his sins, and love his brother.