Author's Note: This is my first ever Supernatural story, and I am more than a little nervous about posting. I am relatively new to the fandom, having just gotten hooked on the show 3-4 months ago. And when I say hooked, man, I mean obsessed. I watched all 6 seasons in the span of two weeks, and have been faithfully watching through all of season 7. This story arose from a plot bunny that would not leave me alone, and took me a couple weeks to write. It was hard and nerve-wracking because I wanted so much to do justice to this wonderful show and these characters. I really put my all into this one and I hope that shines through. Feedback would be wonderful. :)

Warnings: There is some language, but I tried to keep within the boundaries of the show.

Spoilers: Season 7 up through and including 7x18.

Disclaimer: If only I owned them...[wistful sigh]

:Hope Alone Remains:

"Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it." - Helen Keller

Crystallized cotton balls of white meandered lethargically from a dark-grey sky, gracefully coming to rest on earth already blanketed with snow.

The trees jutted, silent and rigid, upwards. A sharp, cold wind blew in from the north, and only the occasional groan or creak of branches could be heard in the stillness of the wood. As the winter night quickly overtook the brightness of the day, the shadows grew more pronounced, casting about in grim and dreary display as a lone figure trudged a weary path through the pristine snow drifts.

Dean breathed via harsh, uncontrolled gasps - in and out, in and out - the wintery air feeling like razorblades scraping against his over-exerted lungs.

His legs moved on autopilot, his feet relentlessly stomping through calf-high drifts. He couldn't feel his thighs anymore, they were so cold, and his ankles ached from the effort of carving a path through the thick white snow. He was exhausted, down to his absolute last reserves, his thoughts narrowed to half-formed bits of sentences. Sweat covered his face, and he could feel it dripping down his back, gathering in the cold crevasses under his arms.

His entire torso, from shoulders to lower ribcage, liberally shuddered with the cold. He wasn't dressed properly for the weather. A thin black t-shirt and plaid button-up under a green army jacket were all the protection he had from the elements. Dean's boots weren't even waterproof; his socks were soaked, as were his jeans below the knee.

His fingers were reddened and numb from their prolonged contact with the frigid air, and he could no longer tell if they were applying enough pressure to the dark wound in his side – he couldn't feel that anymore, either.

Sheer will kept him moving now. He didn't know how long he'd been plodding through the darkening wood, only that he couldn't stop.

'Don't stop,' he mentally admonished, '…gotta get to the road…gotta be a road…'

Suddenly, his feet betrayed him, and he stumbled, falling face-forward.

Frozen hands broke his violent descent, sending spikes of almost electrical pain shooting up to his shoulders. A wheezing grunt passed through chapped lips as Dean lay where he fell and vainly tried to catch his breath.

He could feel the cold wetness seep through his jeans, his jacket, and he could not find the immediate strength to rise.

'Winchesters don't give up, you hear me? You fall down, you get back up again,' he heard, his father's aggressive voice filling his head.

Strange that after all these years he still heard that demanding tone, so much like a drill sergeant's, enter his thoughts whenever he felt defeated or afraid. Strange that it still angered him, a defensive motivation to prove to everyone, especially himself, that he wasn't weak.

'Get up!' he commanded himself, 'Gotta keep moving…'

Gritting his teeth, he let out a low, guttural scream. "Get. Up." He demanded it, out loud, forcing locked and frozen limbs to obey.

When he was halfway to his knees he stopped, his eyes catching hold of metal glinting in the snow just a few inches away from his hand.

He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment before recognizing it as his – well, Bobby's – well-worn flask. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he fell.

And just like that, all of Dean's fortitude evaporated in the wake of familiar, crushing despair.

He rose to his knees only to slide deliberately, bonelessly to ground, this time flipped on his back.

The cold wetness seeped through his clothing and the exposed skin at the back of his head, chilling him to the bone.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, his father's voice cursed at him, screaming, demanding he rise, and calling him a no good excuse for son when he didn't.

A grim smile graced Dean's lips.

He had long been done following orders.

He had long been done in.

Not even the knowledge that giving up would most certainly be an insult the memory of his late father, the equivalent of pissing on the old man's grave, could get him to rise.

Not even the opinion of the formidable John Winchester could compete with this utter desolation.

No, Dean figured he'd paid his dues, in blood and tears, many times over.

'I've earned this,' he thought as he stared up at the darkened sky.

'What about Sammy?' His mind inquired, a question as familiar as the gun pressed against his spine, or the air leaving his mouth in cold clouds of panted breath.

His body shifted uncomfortably on the lumpy, snow-covered ground, and something pulled near his wound. Absently, he wondered if it was still bleeding; but quickly dismissed the momentary concern. He couldn't feel it anymore, anyway.

'Sammy will be fine,' he told himself.

And for the first time in his life, he thought that might be true.

His little brother had overcome the Devil himself to save the world – if he could do that, Dean convinced himself, he could do anything.

And now, with his sanity restored, what need did Sam have for Dean, really?

For a moment, he pictured what he must look like in Sam's eyes – a surly drunk in his early-thirties with no future, a young man turned old before his time.

Hell, he wasn't even that good of a hunter anymore. How many times had he hesitated before a kill over the past few months? How many times had he almost gotten one or both of them killed?

It was clearer than ever now: Dean was holding his little brother back, maybe even putting his life in danger by sticking around.

Yet he couldn't leave. Couldn't get out of this rut. Couldn't escape this darkness.

And he ached for release, for rest, for resolution.

'This time won't be like last time,' he told himself.

This time there would be no deals with demons. They'd learned that lesson many times over.

This time Ruby was dead, and evil was not out seeking to turn his brother darkside.

Sam had beat the demon blood. Sam had beat Lucifer. Sam would beat this, too.

His little brother had grown up. He had become a better hunter – and a stronger man – than Dean ever had been.

He would be fine.

Dean lay quietly for a moment, feeling flakes of snow collect on his frozen face.

Suddenly, a pressing sensation filled his lower belly. He groaned at the seemingly monumental task of rolling on his side to pee.

He could barely get numb fingers to aid in the task.

This new position put the flask once again in his sight. Dean bit his lip, then reached out to pluck it from the snow. It took forever just to force his fingers to grip the cold metal, and even longer to drag the frozen limb back to his body.

He didn't know why the possession gave him such comfort, but it did, and Dean let out a contented sigh as he awkwardly pressed the object to his chest.

Forgetting the cold and ignoring the direness of his situation, he drifted into a complacent doze.

Absently, he began to wonder where he would end up. The prophet Joshua had told them once, seemed like ages ago, that God had granted him and Sam both places in heaven.

Could he really believe that, though? After all, hadn't the apocalypse been God's plan?

Sam and Dean (and Bobby and Cas…) had derailed it.

Something twisted in his chest, like it always did when he thought of those he'd lost, and Dean suddenly longed for a drink. Something, anything, to numb the pain. But he couldn't lift the flask to his lips.

He knew the drinking had gotten bad.

It had started after hell. Just enough whiskey to get his hands to stop shaking after a nightmare or panic attack. Just enough liquid courage to face down angels and devils and to keep his own demons at bay.

But after losing Lisa and Ben, and then Cas, and then Bobby…well.

Now he found his himself drinking just to be able to breathe.

Because if he stopped he just might crumble; curl right up into a fetal position on the floor and die.

Sam knew it, too. He'd said things, all derisive comments and thinly-veiled concern.

Dean knew he was using the alcohol as crutch, knew he was letting his little brother down. He just didn't have the capacity to care anymore.

It felt like he was drowning, sinking lower each day, and he desperately, selfishly wanted Sam to save him, throw him a lifeline, something. He just didn't know how to ask.

But, "I don't care how you deal; I really, really don't," Sam had said.

So Dean sank further.

Against his will, his mind conjured up another thought: 'what if I end up in Hell?'

At that, the edges of Dean's mouth quirked up in a bitter grin. What was trading one hell for another? At least in Hell, he wouldn't hurt like this; he wouldn't feel anything at all.

Despite his indifference, Dean still didn't want his last moments to be filled with thoughts of Hell. Instead, he began daydreaming of heaven.

He pictured himself behind the wheel of the Impala again – home. He imagined driving without care down endless back roads under a starlit summer sky.

He pictured his mother; not the ghost he saw years ago at their old house in Lawrence, nor the malevolent image cloned by Zachariah, or the marred visage stolen by Eve.

He pictured her as he remembered her. And where memory failed, he took himself back to the Djinn's flawed alternate reality; where he could still feel her soft hand cupping his jaw, sense the warmth of her concern, ache with longing at the crinkle of her face as she smiled.

He pictured Sammy as the child he still remembered him long ago. His young face, those innocent green eyes, and a smile untainted by years of darkness and pain.

Dean floated in the memories.

And as his half-aware mind began making a list of all the other people he'd want to see on the other side, Ellen, Jo, Ash, Pamela…the list kept growing, and he smiled.

"You stupid idgit!"

The gruff, familiar voice drew Dean out of his bleary slumber.

He blinked heavy eyelids opened, trying desperately to focus on the image before him.

Though his vision wavered in and out, a moment of brief recognition made Dean's heart jump inside his chest.

An auburn-grey beard framed the beloved face of a man Dean would know anywhere, his features lined with age, and creases set in around misty blue eyes.

Dean tried to move, to rise, but his limbs were too leaden.

Licking chapped lips, it took great effort to make his throat, tongue, and mouth work in tandem to form proper words.

"Bo…Bobby?"

Frustrating seconds passed before Dean's vision finally corrected itself and brought the form into focus.

It was Bobby – dirty blue baseball cap and all.

And he looked pissed.

A lone trucker noticed a rickety Toyota Corolla barreling down the highway at 3 a.m.

"Crazy sonofabitch," the old man muttered as he merged into the right lane to let the smaller car pass.

It veritably flew by, and he stole a glance down at his instrument panel. If he was doing 80 mph, how fast was that guy going?

Sam was a sorry excuse for a brother. Of this, he was certain.

His tall frame hunched uncomfortably in the cramped vehicle, and white knuckled fingers clenched the wheel so hard he thought it might break.

Panic, guilt, and grief welled up in his gut, spilling over into his limbs. He unconsciously pushed harder down on the gas pedal, unaware that the needle was already tipping past 90 mph.

God, he'd been so stupid.

It's not like there hadn't been signs. Dean had been living on the edge for awhile. Sam had known this, but it was only very recently that he realized how precarious that edge really was - only recently that he could focus on anything other than the endless nightmare playing day and night inside his head.

Sam had been healed.

The madness had left him; Lucifer was no longer riding shotgun in his mind.

And Sam still marveled at the silence.

After leaving the psychiatric hospital, he'd slept on and off for four days, only waking to eat, shower, and relieve himself. Dean had been a constant during that blurry period, his gruff voice a comfort when Sam woke up groggy and confused; his calloused hands hovering close whenever Sam stumbled getting out of the motel bed.

And when he'd finally woken up days later, he was just Sam again - finally alert, finally able to rest, finally able to concentrate on something other than the chaos in his head. Sure he'd had a few flashbacks since then; twice now he'd thought he saw Lucifer making faces at him out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned to see more fully, no one was there.

Sam felt great; for the first time in a long time, he felt healthy, whole.

And yet, he could not bring himself to feel grateful.

And he couldn't help being angry at his brother.

In his heart of hearts, he knew it was pointless and irrational to be angry at Dean. He knew by now that his big brother would never let him fade quietly into the night, not without exhausting every possible means of salvation, even to his own detriment.

But Sam had been right – it really was all snake oil. Every time they'd tried to beat death, there was a price to pay. Only this time, they weren't paying it. Cas was.

Friend or foe, it didn't matter. Someone else was suffering Sam's burden, and it was a bitter pill to swallow. It didn't matter that Cas had volunteered to take it on – if that was what really happened.

Sam was too out of it to remember much before he felt the angel's palm on his forehead; but he knew from experience to never underestimate how far Dean would go to save him. And if his brother had known Cas could heal Sam by shifting the crazy into himself – Sam couldn't be sure that Dean wouldn't have demanded the angel do so anyway. Even though his brother had once considered Cas to be family – given the choice, Sam knew he would always come first.

Dean just had to save him, again, and now Sam was stuck with the guilt of knowing just how bad things were. He had danced with the Devil for a long time - he knew exactly what Cas was suffering, 24/7. And that knowledge he carried around like cement blocks on his shoulders, like ice in his gut.

And Dean…Dean just drank all the more, swallowing down the bile with hard liquor, and that pissed Sam off too. Because now he saw everything with wonderful, awful clarity.

Now he saw his brother, unraveling.

Things had gotten even worse after the brewery. He'd caught Dean trying to talk to Bobby's ghost twice since then, despite Sam's insistence that it was just his imagination, just grief and too much whiskey muddling his perception.

But there was more: his brother was unshaven, with lines of weariness around his eyes. Dean barely slept anymore, so caught up was he in researching Dick Roman and how to kill Leviathans. He'd grown careless on hunts, lacking the ferocity and split-second reaction time Sam usually associated with the seasoned hunter.

And Sam knew he needed to do something, to confront Dean on his dangerous behavior, but part of him still hoped his brother could shake this off on his own. Dean always bounced back from whatever life – or death – threw at him. He would this time, too.

Or at least, that's what made it easier for Sam to sleep at night.

But it had all blown to hell earlier that evening.

They'd been staying in a crap-hole of a motel room in northern Minnesota, waiting out a snowstorm because their piece of shit car wouldn't be able to handle the elements.

It had been three days. They were cranky from the cold and the dank smell and feel of a room too tiny to hold the all emotional aches that had dogged the brothers for miles upon miles.

Sam had gone out for food and air, deliberately forgetting to buy the alcohol Dean had requested.

The temperature had been in the single digits, and by the time Sam half-jogged back to the motel, he couldn't feel his fingertips or his toes. As he stood outside the door fumbling with the room key he paused, hearing a voice coming from within.

His brother's voice.

Leaning his ear close and standing very, very still, Sam listened as his big brother once again pleaded in a broken voice for Bobby to show himself.

In that moment, Sam's stomach plummeted to his feet. He felt sick.

This was much worse than he could have imagined. Now he realized: his brother wasn't getting better; he was driving himself crazy with grief.

Suddenly, Sam jumped, startled as the loud sound of a crash came from inside the room.

"Dean!" He called out in fear.

Barging in the room, he found only his brother leaning against the dresser, having swiped the contents previously sitting on top of it onto the floor.

Sam sighed, in relief or annoyance, he didn't know.

"You wanna tell me what that was all about?"

Dean's only response was to flex his fingers against the edges of the dresser.

'Typical,' Sam thought bitterly, and because he was hungry and too tired to fight, he began talking as if nothing had just happened, unpacking the grocery items one by one on the tiny table next to the door.

"Alright. Well. I got some take-out. They didn't have the spicy chick…"

"You get the whiskey?" Dean interrupted.

Sam froze, reigning in his anger by biting down hard on his lower lip.

He kept his voice nonchalant.

"Nope. Must've forgot."

He could feel Dean's eyes on him then, glaring.

"Right. You just forgot." There was no mistaking the venomous sarcasm.

"Sorry, man." Sam shrugged, refusing to meet his brother's gaze.

A moment or two passed in silence, but Sam knew from experience, it was far from over.

"If you've got something to say, then say it," Dean growled agitatedly.

And that was it.

Sam turned, looking his brother straight in the eyes.

"Yeah. I do have something to say, actually."

Dean's chin tipped upward in defiance, which did nothing but kindle the growing flame of irritation in Sam's gut.

"The drinking, Dean. You're a friggin' drunk."

Dean let out a huff of air and turned away. "Whatever, dude."

"No. Not whatever," Sam replied, speaking in clipped sentences. "I'm serious. And I'm not gonna support your addiction anymore."

Dean, as expected, merely brushed him off.

"Look it's just how I deal, alright?"

"It's not alright, Dean! Do you even see yourself? You reek of alcohol, all the time. Your hands shake when you go without a drink for too long. You're not sleeping, and I've caught you three different times now talking to the walls, like some…."

"Like some what? Like some kind of head case?" Dean challenged. "I think you oughta take a look in the mirror."

Sam refused to take the bait; he knew better. He knew Dean didn't mean it and was merely deflecting to get the attention off of himself.

He took a step forward, his index finger stabbing toward the ground as he ground out his next words, "You're not dealing, Dean. That's the whole point. And it's gonna get you killed."

"Who cares?" Dean exploded, in a voice so loud it startled Sam,

Throwing his arms out in a wide arc, he continued, more calm the second time. "Seriously, Sam - why do you even care anymore? I don't!"

Sam watched the shock register on Dean's face before it settled in his own gut, as it hit him that his brother hadn't intended to say those words out loud.

Involuntary tears pricked the younger man's eyes. 'My god, is that how bad it is?'

"How can you ask that? Of course I care! You're my brother."

They stood motionless for a few moments, Sam studying his older brother in concern, and Dean rubbing his hand anxiously across his jaw, just staring at the carpet.

"Dean…you need to let go, man. This talking to walls stuff – it's scaring me."

"I don't 'talk to walls,' Sammy," Dean scoffed, turning away.

"Bobby's not a ghost, damn it; we've been through this!"

The older hunter merely shook his head, a wry smile gracing his lips.

Sam exhaled loudly, throwing up an arm in frustration. "Why can't you just…!"

Dean turned back around, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Why can't I just what, Sam? Suck it up? Shake it off?"

Sam's face screwed up in confusion. "No, that's not what…look, why can't you just talk to me?"

"I tried talking to you about it, Sam, but it's pretty hard when you won't even entertain the possibility!"

"That's because it's NOT possible, Dean!" Sam roared. "We burned his bones!"

A few moments passed of breathless silence, and then Dean cleared his throat.

"Did you, uh, did you remember the duck sauce? You know how I like duck sauce on my Chinese chicken – "

The diversion was so obvious and abrupt that the younger man's mouth dropped open.

"Dean…" Sam called quietly as his brother stalked over to the table where the food sat.

"I think there's still a few beers in the fridge. We can kick back and watch some pay-per-view."

"Dude. Stop." Sam pleaded, unable to listen to the inane babble any longer.

"Just lay off, Sam," Dean said, opening a container of fried rice and giving it a sniff.

Sam stared in disbelief. Fear and rage battled violently in his heart.

"What does that mean, you don't care if you get killed?"

"Sam, I mean it. Lay off."

"I deserve to know, Dean."

Dean's head shot up then, fixing him with a murderous glare. "I said 'lay off'!"

Sam shook his head. "You're unbelievable."

Dean continued unpacking the food, as if his brother wasn't even in the room.

Stunned by the depths of Dean's depression and grief, Sam felt almost overcome with despair.

"Why can't you lean on me?" Sam whispered. "I'm right here, man."

Dean merely paused before tipping his head back to meet his brother's gaze. When he spoke, his eyes were filled with weary compassion.

"It's always something with you, Sammy. It isn't your fault most of the time. But there's always something. And I just can't."

Sam nodded. Once again, his brother wouldn't trust him with his burdens, because he was always already carrying Sam's.

Well, that was bullshit.

"You know what, Dean? You're selfish," he spat.

At that, Dean froze and met Sam's eyes with a steely glare. A warning.

"I'm selfish? Really? You're gonna play that card?"

Rage bubbled in Sam's chest.

"Yeah, I am! What, you think you're the only one who lost someone? You think you're the only one who misses Bobby?"

The shove was violent and instantaneous. Though, honestly, Sam had expected a punch to the jaw.

But when he caught his balance again and looked up, he was floored by the sight of tears in his older brother's eyes.

"You don't know a damn thing," his brother said quietly, voice quivering.

"See, first it was dad dying, and your psychic crap, and then it was hell, and then the demon blood, and then Lucifer, and the cage, and then you were soulless, and then you were crazy – and now the one person who got me through all that, the one person I could go to when crap started hittin' the fan, is gone!"

By the end of the rant, Dean was visibly shaking with the effort of controlling his emotions, but he carefully arranged his features into a neutral expression.

"I need a drink," he said hoarsely, picking his coat up off the bed.

Sam just stood there, shaken by the blunt truth of his brother's words.

To his shame, he could only stare helplessly as Dean threw on his coat and stomped out the motel door.

But what happened two hours later would send Sam careening out into the night in a stolen Toyota Corolla, his blood running cold at the thought of losing his only remaining family.

It was almost 2 a.m. when Sam was roused from a fitful sleep by the sound of his ring tone.

His skin protested at the contact with chilly air as his arm snaked out from beneath the trapped warmth of layers of blankets, fumbling blindly for the object responsible for the offensive racket.

Bringing the gadget up close to his face, he briefly checked the caller I.D. before answering.

"Dean?"

"Sam! Listen – I have an address here I need you to meet me at."

His brother sounded almost manic, and it set off alarm bells in Sam's head. He immediately sat up in bed, tossing the covers carelessly aside.

"What? Wait, Dean – what's going on?"

"Don't think; just take down this address!"

"No, damn it; tell me what's going on! Where are you?"

"I got a call from Frank. He gave me the address of this warehouse – "

"Whoa, slow down – Frank? I thought Frank was dead?"

"Apparently not! Anyway, this warehouse, he said it was just built in the past month, and it's so secretive that everyone in the town thinks it's a National Security thing."

"Wait, Dean…that doesn't make any sense…how do you know it was Frank?"

"Because I just know, alright? I just wanted to scope the place out while it's dark, and I could use some backup."

Sam's heart was hammering in his chest.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, and Sam was suddenly overcome with the strong need to see his brother and find out just what the fuck was going on.

But he kept his voice casual as he replied, "Okay but, let's go tomorrow night, man. It's too cold to be doing surveillance tonight."

"What, you're afraid you'll get a chill, Sasquatch? Come on – "

"Dean, I'm serious. We shouldn't go in there without a plan. Look, just come back to the motel, alright? Please."

There was a pause, and Sam allowed himself to hope….

"No. I gotta do this Sam. With or without you."

Sam's heart sank in confusion and fear at the odd note in his brother's voice.

He sighed. "Damn it, Dean…what's the address?"

"2245 West Marco Street. I'm on the North side of the building."

"Wait – you're already there? What the hell, Dean?" Sam hissed, already fumbling one-handedly for his boots.

"It's just under an hour outside of town. Meet me here."

"Don't do anything stupid!" Sam said furiously.

He received a distinctly ominous 'click' in reply.

"So I'm dead."

He said it so matter-of-factly, void of any note of wonder or fear. There was only resignation, and maybe a hint of relief.

Dean was upright now, half-sitting/half-lying against the bottom of a knobby tree, though how he came to be in such a position, he could not recall. But he was suddenly no longer cold or numb, and it would have surprised him if he'd been able to muster up any emotion other than indifference.

The thing that looked like Bobby knelt in front of him, studying him with an intense gaze that Dean could not place.

"What, you got nothing to say?"

"I don't understand you, boy," the thing said sadly.

"Look, spare me the guilt trip, alright?" Dean replied sarcastically, his gaze wandering indifferently. "If you're here to reap me, just do it already."

"You're not dead, you jackass," the Bobby-like image stated sharply. "Not yet, anyhow. And I'm no reaper, shapeshifter, revenant, or figment of your imagination."

"Yeah? Then what are you?" Dean challenged aggressively. "Because you can't be Bobby - we burned his bones."

"I struck a deal with the reaper," Bobby supplied, a cunning smile playing around the edges of his mouth. "Figured I'd stick around and watch over your scrawny ass."

"Yeah? Well I never asked you to," Dean replied stubbornly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"You really think I'd ask your permission?" Bobby snidely retorted.

Dean just glared. "If you are Bobby's spirit, then what the hell are you doing here, anyway? Why bother showing up now? Where the hell were you all those times Sam and I tried to contact to you?"

"I tried, boy," Bobby insisted ruefully. "You've got no idea how many times I tried to reach out, to get you two idgits to see me, hear me. It ain't easy being a ghost - especially when I'm limited by that." Bobby motioned toward the object Dean still cradled against his torso.

Dean looked up. "This? You're haunting the damn flask?"

Bobby shrugged. "I didn't exactly have a lot of options."

The young hunter snorted. "I guess 'ole Garth was right." He paused, thinking. "So if I'm not dead, then what? I'm in limbo? Is that why I can see you?"

Bobby shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"Well, I guess I'll be seeing you permanently soon enough," Dean said, a grim note of finality in his tone.

Bobby just stared for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and sad.

"You break my heart, kid. Are you really that far gone? You're just gonna lay there and give up, let Sam come find your body out here, make him bury the only family he's got left?"

Dean flinched at the mention of Sam, but had no further reaction beyond a defiantly muttered, "Guess so."

"Why?" The question was one part anger, two parts disbelief.

Dean's head shot up, his eyes glaring daggers. "You really gotta ask me that?"

"Yes I do! Because the Dean Winchester I knew would never just roll over and die!"

"Yeah, well here's a newsflash, old man: the Dean Winchester you knew died when you kicked the bucket. So you can take your lectures, a-and your pep talks, and all your sermonizing about the greater good, and stuff it! I'm done, you hear me? I am done."

"Dean…."

"No! You hear me? I'm sick of this life. All there is – is-is blood, and pain, and death. I've given everything I ever had, lost damn-near everyone I ever cared about, and I have nothing to show for it."

"What about your brother?" Bobby offered.

Dean shook his head, years of tragedy upon tragedy reflected in his eyes.

"I'm tired, Bobby. I've been tired for a long time. Man, I've got nothing left to give. You want somebody to look after? Look after Sam. Go haunt somebody who still gives a damn."

Bobby never thought he'd see the day when the thought of Sam failed to spark a desire to fight within the elder Winchester. For a moment, he was too lost for words.

"I get that it ain't easy. But you don't stop being a soldier just because you were wounded in battle. You told me that once. And you don't give up just because you lose people."

"It's not worth it anymore, Bobby!" Dean protested. "The world's going to hell in a handbasket, and every time we save it, something else just comes along to rip it all to shreds."

Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Well, ain't you a gloomy gus. Last time I checked, whining wasn't in a hunter's job description. And since when is saving people ever not worth it? You're all screwed up in the head, son."

Dean looked down at his lap, studying his hands. When he spoke, his voice was raw.

"Maybe I am…but I just can't do it anymore, Bobby. I've lost everyone except for Sam, and it's only a matter of time before I lose him, too. I can't do it. I won't."

"Oh, I don't know," Bobby said carefully. "I think it's pretty clear that Someone out there wants you and Sam alive and doing the job."

"God?" Dean spat incredulously. "You're gonna bring God into this?"

"I didn't say it; you did." Bobby paused. "But I will tell you that things get awfully clearer on the other side."

Dean shook his head. "Unbelievable. You of all people should know that God doesn't give a crap about us – God left the building a long time ago. Remember?"

"I remember," Bobby answered, but said nothing further.

Dean, feeling a need to kill the silence, continued. "Well, riddle me this then: where was God when the world was heading for the damn apocalypse? Where was he when Sam was in the cage? Hm? Where was he when there was a freakin' civil war in heaven, a-and when the friggin' Leviathans busted out of purgatory?"

"You know what I think?" Bobby calmly replied. "I think the mere fact that you and Sam are still breathin', is proof enough that God cares an awful lot about a lot of things."

"Bull!" Dean hissed angrily.

"Think about it, son. How many close calls have you and Sam had over the years? How many times have you boys done the impossible? Saved people? Came back from the dead? Hell, you've earned the respect of demons and angels – how many other mortals can say that? Think of all the victories you boys have had – you killed Azazel, you brought down Horsemen and resisted archangels. You survived hell. You beat the Devil, for god's sake. You guys have saved the world, over and over again. And you'll do it again."

Bobby waited for the words to sink in before continuing.

"I know it ain't easy, and the cost is high. But it's worth it, son. You think you're alone in this war, but you ain't. You've still got your brother. And you've still got me. And I know you might not be able to see us or feel it, but everyone here on the other side - we're rootin' for you, boy. And we're not giving up on you. So don't you dare give up on yourself."

Bobby could tell by the way Dean's adam's apple bobbed in his throat and the teary film over his hazel eyes that he'd gotten through, and he waited patiently for a response.

"I just…how m'I supposed to…I don't know how to...live."

Bobby smiled ever so slightly, a twinkle in his eye. "Simple rules, kid. If you need help, ask for it. And if you can't walk, you find someone to lean on until you're steady again."

Dean was crying unabashedly now, thick, silent tears rolling down trembling cheeks.

They remained quiet for a few moments, both men uncomfortable with such blatant show of emotion.

Then suddenly, Bobby's image flickered and began to fade.

"Balls!"

Dean gasped in alarm as the spirit began to evaporate before his eyes. "Bobby!"

"It's okay; your brother's here, now."

"No, but…what's happening?…where are you going?"

"I'll be around, son. I'll be around."

"Bobby, no….wait!"

As Bobby's image faded into nonexistence, Dean felt the barest touch of the old man's calloused palm gently cupping his jaw.

And he wept his way into unconsciousness.

Sam spotted the small, blue, beat-up pickup parked predictably one block away from the address his brother had rattled out over the phone.

They had stolen the truck last week from the parking lot of a small bar, having meticulously checked to make sure no mounted cameras documented their illegal deed.

He parked behind the blue vehicle and exited quickly, pulling out his phone to call his brother and let him know he'd arrived.

The call went straight to voicemail just as Sam walked by the front of the blue pickup truck, glanced down, and noticed Dean's phone sitting on the driver's seat.

The tall man cursed loudly and kicked a hubcap in frustration. "That's great, Dean - just great! Now how am I supposed to find you?"

He turned around instinctively, his eyes seeking out the shadows of the nearby woods as if they held the answers to all his problems.

And that's when he saw it.

A flickering form within the trees. Unmistakable. Undeniable.

"Bobby!"

The moment the name tore from Sam's throat, the image disappeared.

And Sam ran until he was swallowed by the darkness of the woods.

Sam's face was wet with tears by the time he stumbled upon his brother's prone form.

Dean was lying slumped on his side at the base of a twisted tree. His pallor was appallingly grey, his lips a purplish-blue. A light dusting of snow sparkled against his clothes, hair, and skin. And there were frozen tear tracks on his cheeks.

For a moment Sam was afraid to touch him, and he sagged with relief when his fingers found a sluggish pulse in Dean's neck.

"Thank you," he tearfully directed at the spirit still hovering, still flickering watchfully nearby. "God…thank you."

Bobby gave a solemn nod. "You watch out for your brother now, Sam."

Sam's head bobbed vigorously, messy tears slipping down his face. "I will. I will, Bobby."

"See ya, kid."

And with that, Bobby's spirit evaporated before Sam's eyes, replaced by an almost overwhelming darkness and silence.

Blinking rapidly, Sam turned back to his charge. "Dean…Dean!"

The older man remained limp and unresponsive, despite Sam's repeated shaking of his shoulder.

"Damn it…."

The dim moonlight provided scant visual aid, so Sam had to rely on touch to search for any obvious injuries.

It wasn't easy considering his hands were half-frozen, but he skimmed over Dean's head, limbs, and torso, anyway. To his dismay, Sam discovered that the left side of Dean's jacket was matted with blood; though the knife wound, as Sam guessed it to be, appeared to have stopped bleeding some time ago. However, Sam knew that right now the biggest threat to Dean's life was hypothermia, and he desperately wanted to rouse his brother, get him moving, and get the blood re-circulating in his veins.

Grabbing Dean's cold face in his hands, he began earnestly slapping and pinching the older man's cheeks. The skin pinched chalky white beneath his fingertips.

"Dean…hey, Dean…hey…wake up, man. Dean!"

When that failed, Sam tried knuckling his brother's sternum. "Come on…."

When Dean still failed to awaken, Sam did it again, this time bearing more weight down and digging his knuckle cruelly into bone.

"Dean!"

Sam pulled back abruptly as Dean suddenly hissed and became animated, squirming weakly under the warm bulk pinning him to the tree.

"Sssstttp…"

"Dean? Hey, talk to me. It's Sam."

"Mmh…?" Dean grunted.

"Yeah, it's me. Hey, I'm gonna get you outta here, okay? But I need your help. Think you can stand?"

"Tir'd."

"I know man, but I need you to stay awake for me right now," Sam said, shifting his hands under Dean's armpits. "I'm gonna get you up, okay?"

Dean just groaned.

Lifting six foot plus of muscular Winchester was no easy feat, and Dean had no strength in his limbs. Sam strained to get his brother propped up against the tree, then pulled the older man's right arm across his shoulders.

"We're gonna walk now, okay Dean? I need you to walk. You with me?"

Miraculously, Dean's leg shifted marginally forward, and Sam could have wept again at the small sign of awareness.

"That's good, Dean. That's real good. I'm gonna get you out of here, you hear? Just lean on me, big brother. That's it…."

He continued muttering encouragements until his throat was raw, speaking as if his voice was Dean's only tether to this world, and a thin one at that.

Sam half stumbled, half dragged them the rest of the way through the snow, his brother lax and nearly frozen at his side.

Consciousness returned to him in bits and layers.

He was dimly aware of the nurses coming in and out of his room, but their voices were mere incoherent murmurs on the edges of his brain. Twice he'd squinted open bleary eyes to see his brother sitting half-asleep in the chair next to his bed, looking unshaven and wan.

Eventually, he became aware enough to take stock of his body. He was warm, but not uncomfortably so, and that felt nice. A slight shift of his body under the covers, and he could feel the pull of what could only be stitches in his side, but nothing hurt. And that was nice, too.

Dean continued to drift lazily, content to dwell in the safe, warm, unobtrusive this, for as long as possible.

Gradually, however, he became aware of other things. The familiar clicks of a laptop keyboard. The faint hum of a TV. And the occasional, unexpected clearing of the throat or anxious exhale that was so comfortingly Sam.

But finally it was the soft, yet annoyingly constant 'beep' of a cardiac monitor that signaled he was in the hospital and put an end to Dean's lackadaisical doze.

He blinked open eyes gummy with sleep and swallowed, preparing to announce his presence.

Sam, of course, was one step ahead of him.

"Dean? Hey…Hey!" Dean couldn't help but notice how his little brother's voice shook. "You finally with me, Dean? You awake?"

"M'here," Dean answered with a croak, making a disgusted face at the sound of his own crusty voice.

Sam let out a whoosh of air like he'd been holding onto it for days, and his eyes were wet as reached over to the table nearby and retrieved a plastic cup filled with water and a straw.

"Thanks," Dean whispered after a few sips, closing his eyes in ecstasy.

"You're not gonna go back to sleep again, are you?" Sam asked, sounding fretful.

Dean lazily re-opened his eyes. "Feels nice. M'tired. Why?"

Sam's hazel eyes bled compassion and fear. "Nothing, it's just…you've been out of it for almost a week now. The doctors were starting to get concerned because you weren't waking up." He paused. "Speaking of which…." Sam reached up and pressed the call button above Dean's bed.

"A friggin' week?" Dean asked hoarsely, suddenly a little more alert. "What th' hell?"

"Yeah. You scared the crap out of me, man. When we got here you had a temp. of 83. That's borderline severe hypothermia, Dean. You almost died. You're damn lucky you still have all your fingers and toes."

"How many?" Dean interjected.

"What? How many what?"

"Stitches."

Sam let out a long-suffering sigh. "Fourteen. You're gonna have a hell of a scar."

"Eh, what's another one to add to the mix, right?" Dean dryly replied.

Then the nurse came in to check Dean's vitals.

Sam stood up to give the man more room, hiding a smile at the way his brother went rigid when he saw that the nurse was male. The guy was efficient though, and after letting them know the doctor would be in soon to talk to them, left as quickly as he'd come.

"Nurse is a friggin' dude," Dean commented. "This sucks, man."

Sam stepped closer to the bed, hands buried in pockets, a somber look on his face.

"Listen, Dean…we need to talk about what happened."

"Oh god, here we go…."

"Don't. You don't get to do that. Not after what you put me through," Sam said, softly but firmly. "You were blue, man. And you were half frozen and out of it and barely breathing. I deserve to know what happened."

Dean sighed, absently picking at a frayed string from his blanket. "I got to the warehouse, parked, and moved in for a closer look. Nobody was around, so I started peeking in the windows. Then this guy came up from behind and grabbed me."

"Leviathan?"

"Probably, yeah."

"You didn't take any Borax with you?" Sam's voice was sharp, reproachful.

"Dude, it was just surveillance."

Sam shook his head in disbelief, but remained silent.

"Anyway, I cut him with the knife, but of course that only made him mad. He wrestled the blade out of my hands and stuck me with it. I got away and ran into the woods, thinking I'd throw them off and then make my way back to the truck."

"Did they chase you?"

"I don't know. If they did, they never caught up with me."

"Why didn't you wait for me?"

Dean shook his head. "I don't know."

"That's not an answer."

"Well, then I don't have one. Look, Frank called, gave me that address, and I just…I had to do something, man. I had to check it out."

"You know better, Dean! Leviathans are clever as hell and we don't even know how to kill the damn things. You went in without backup, without proper weapons, without even checking to make sure your source was legit – for all we know, that was some Big Mouth talking to you over the phone. Where's your head at, man? I mean seriously – what the hell?"

"Alright, calm down –"

"You want to die, is that it?" Sam asked sharply.

"Sam…."

"Well, you said it yourself, you don't give a crap anymore if you get killed."

"That's not…it's not like that."

"Then what is it like, Dean?"

"I don't know, okay? I don't know! Sometimes I just feel like…like..." He trailed off, staring at his hands fidgeting with the blanket. "It just...you know, with Cas and Bobby…" 'And Lisa and Ben' he mentally added, unable to say the names out loud. "And sometimes the whiskey doesn't work, and I just…go crazy, I guess."

Sam nodded, his mouth quirking in understanding. "Next time, just tell me, man. Please. It's what I'm here for. I won't make you talk if you don't want to, but at least I'll know what's going on inside your head. Because you can't keep doing this. It's not fair to either of us."

"I know."

"Then promise."

"Sam…."

"Dean, don't."

"Thought you said you didn't care how I deal," Dean said petulantly.

"Well, I changed my mind." Sam brought a finger up to tap against his temple. "Besides, Luci's not riding shotgun anymore; I'm back on my A-game. So there's no excuse for you to keep this crap from me anymore. Now promise."

"You're not gonna let me drink anymore, are you?" Dean asked with dread.

Sam sighed. "I'm not gonna lose you Dean. Not to some Leviathan, not to some half-cocked vendetta, and not to alcoholism. I'm not. I won't. So promise."

It took a long moment for Dean to reply.

"Simple rules, kid. If you need help, ask for it. And if you can't walk, you find someone to lean on until you're steady again."

"Fine. I promise."

Sam bit his lip before abruptly changing the subject. "By the way…uh…you aren't crazy."

Dean glanced up in confusion. "What?"

"Back there. I couldn't find you. You'd left your phone in the truck and there was no way to track you. My next step would have been to head down toward the warehouse, and that probably wouldn't have ended well. But I turned around…and I saw something. In the woods."

"Yeah, and?"

"…It was Bobby. Or his spirit, I mean. He…it…was practically glowing. He, uh…led me to you. I wouldn't have found you in time otherwise."

"Wow," Dean commented, lost in thought.

"Yeah. So…I guess I owe you an apology, man. You were right; I just didn't want to see it."

But Dean had zoned out of the conversation, an unreadable expression on his pale face.

"Dean? You okay, man? Hey…Dean!"

"I'm fine, Sam. It's just, uh…I saw Bobby, too."

"In the woods?"

"Yeah."

Sam sucked in a breath. "Well, what did – did he say anything to you?"

"He said a lot of things, actually," Dean said quietly.

And it hit him then all at once, a tsunami of grief, the ache so profound that it was almost like the phantom pain from a severed limb.

"Dean…." Sam's voice was like fragile glass, stunned and horrified at the sudden, silent tears rolling down his big brother's face.

His bony fingers dug sympathetically into Dean's shoulder as he knelt down, trying to get a closer look at his brother's eyes.

"Hey, man...what -"

"I miss him, Sammy…god…I miss him…" Dean choked helplessly.

The only other time Sam had seen his brother cry like this was years ago on an old highway, sharing beers over the hood of the Impala as Dean bared his soul and told his little brother of the horrors of hell.

There was a time when the trust was so broken between them that Sam thought he'd never again be allowed to see Dean with his emotional guard down. But a lot had transpired since then. He'd changed. Maybe they both had. And this time, Sam was determined to do it right.

"I know, man. It's okay. I miss him, too."

It struck him that they'd never really grieved. There'd been shock, yes, and there'd been anger, and a hollow emptiness. But they'd never really just felt the loss, they'd never given in to that deep sorrow. It was too soon, too fresh. And it hurt too much.

And Dean, who was closer to both Cas and Bobby than Sam had been, for the longest time had anesthetized himself with alcohol and a cold rage – yet here he lay, exhausted and broken, with the memories of Bobby's recent words to him fresh in his mind, and nothing to numb the pain. The doctors had Dean on mild painkillers, but nothing more, especially considering how difficult it had been to rouse him.

Sam carefully lowered half of his body on the bed and put an arm around his quaking sibling.

It was his turn to be the strong one, and for the first time in his life, Sam understood what that meant. Because Dean had shown him.

With tears in his eyes and conviction his quivering voice, Sam spoke.

"We're gonna be okay, Dean. We're gonna get through this, together. You and me against the world, man. You just gotta believe me on this one. You gotta make it stone number one and build on it."

Dean snorted, glancing up with bloodshot eyes and giving Sam a classic "WTF" look.

"What is that, reverse psychology?" He said with a sniff.

Sam chuckled. "I don't know, did it work?"

"I dunno, if your intention was to prove that I am awesome and you are completely unoriginal, then yeah, I suppose it did."

Sam smiled knowingly. "Then my work here is done, apparently."

Later they would deal with answering the many questions raised by Bobby's appearance, get back to trying to solve that pesky Leviathan problem, back to worrying about Cas and speculating about the intentions of Meg and Crowley.

But for that raw moment in that hospital bed in some no-name Minnesota town, it was just Sam and Dean, two brothers dealing with a uniquely human issue in a very human way.

Healing.

The End.

"Heaven fails me.

Earth assails me.

Hope alone remains."

- Sri Chinmoy

A/N: Thoughts? Please do share. Remember, it's my first Supernatural fic. :)

About the Story:

Inspiration for this story sparked from a couple different things. First, it really bothered me in "Slice Girls" when Sam told Dean "I don't care how you deal, I really, really don't...just don't get killed." I felt like Sam should've cared, because Dean's drinking and depression was/is serious. But he also had his own problems at the time. And Dean's flat response of, "I'll do what I can," really struck me as indicative of his mental state, justifying me writing him 'giving up' as not out of character for Dean in the context of this season. Second, I began thinking about what it would take for Dean to hope again, to pull him out of the pit of despair he's been wallowing in all season. Bobby was the only answer I could see, as Bobby was the one Dean always went to with his problems. And the story just wrote itself.

Oh, I almost forgot - this line: "If you need help, ask for it. And if you can't walk, you find someone to lean on until you're steady again," is a my own paraphrased version, but inspiration came from another story in this fandom, though I can't recall the name. I believe in that story, the quote was "If you can't walk, you crawl, and if you can't crawl, you find someone to carry you." And I've been told it was taken from "Firefly". Just wanted to give credit where credit's due.