It's after he talked to Dean that it happens. Sam is sitting, trembling, trying to make sense of what he can do. He can't even take the coward's way out and commit suicide, at least, so says Lucifer. And Dean . . . Dean wants him on the other side of the planet. Separate hemispheres.

"Sam, just say yes." Lucifer whispers in his ear. He is pretending to be Dean, now. Sam ignores him.

The next day, he sees a boy nearly get hit by a bus. A passerby saved him.

That's when it starts to click.

Family first. That has always been the motto of their family. But Sam realizes that that isn't right. Plus, since when have they followed that rule? They use it as a cover story. John for his obsession with revenge. Dean for his fear of being alone. Sam for his own revenge, and then the power.

It all starts to make sense. The Winchesters have it wrong. Family shouldn't come first. The mission should. It's an epiphany they should have had a long time ago, but they've always been too weak.

Sam smiles in his dream that night. The devil looks slightly disconcerted, but covers it with a smile of his own.

"Just say yes, Sam."

Sam feels a strength he hadn't in a long time.

"Never."

He starts out slow. The helping people deal had always been in the Winchester plan of action—"Saving people, hunting things"—but only now does Sam realize that they really haven't done enough. They always come in, make a mess, save the day, and sweep out of town without a backwards glance. Play the heroes, but are cowards when it means facing the consequences.

Dean once always said Sam was the one to connect with people and all that. But really, it has been a show, always pretending to empathize. After the deal, Dean going to hell . . . well, that part of him had slipped through the cracks. The last time Sam had really empathized with someone was a very long time ago.

So Sam has to relearn how to care.

"Amen."

The demon left the woman screaming and Sam rushes over, anxiously feeling for a pulse. It is there. Faint, but there.

A second later, and the husband has pushed him aside.

"Elsie, sweetheart, wake up."

Sam remains silent, helping when he could, offering water, fetching blankets. But in the end, the woman dies.

"I'm sorry," he says helplessly.

The husband's eyes are dead, but not all the way. Sam hesitates. Normally he would just turn away, but they are in the middle of the apocalypse, after all.

"Come with me," he says softly. He has to rummage through his bag, but manages to find the guy an anti-possession charm.

"What . . .?" The question is dull with grief, and Sam feels a sympathy he hasn't for a long time.

"It's so you don't get possessed. We're headed into the apocalypse. Here—" Sam scribbles down his number, staring at the digits for a second before handing the card to the man. Dean hasn't called. "Call me if you need help."

"I . . . thanks." The words are whispered. Sam knows that in the past, he and Dean would've taken some kind of pride. Now, Sam just takes it at face value.

"You're welcome."

"You try so hard. But you'll never be able to redeem yourself."

Sam closes his eyes against the truth in Lucifer's. "No," he murmurs. He is still strong. He will stay strong, because it isn't about him. Not anymore.

Sam has a list. It's a list of people he's saved, and it's tempting to use it as a success rate. But that's not what it's about. Sam keeps in contact, giving them tips, letting them know what's going on. But at all cost, he avoids seeing them twice. Sam knows that he's a bringer of death. So as much as he wants to connect, to have someone there for him, he can't. It's too dangerous. He's part of the fire and oil that make up the apocalypse, after all.

The hunters track him down. Sam is expecting it, but doesn't really enjoy the butt of a gun knocking him in the head.

When Sam wakes up, he is tied to a chair, nowhere to go.

The torture is harsh, but the hunters aren't really killers. They figure out pretty quickly that Sam is human (after several creative methods involving salt, holy water, and silver knives), but that doesn't make them any happier with him.

Frustrated, the hunters turn to electricity. It's not out of cruelty, exactly. Just an act of desperate men. It is the apocalypse after all, so Sam thinks he can forgive them.

Lightning burns through him, seizing control. But Sam is just happy they aren't shoving demon blood down his throat.

"So you started the apocalypse?" One of them growls again.

Sam sees no reason to lie. "Yes."

The darkness comes, and Lucifer smiles. "Would you fight for them? I can stop them. Stop the pain. It would be so easy." The devil shows Sam an image of the hunters strung up, hanging by their necks. Lucifer's surprisingly not that creative.

Sam looks at the devil, now wearing his mother's face. "You know so little," he informs Lucifer. He smiles gently.

He wakes up, and takes several more sessions of electrocution. He vaguely thinks of Dean and the rawhead. It was so long ago, a different life, a different Sam. It's funny, how much he hated those days, but now wants them back. Sam's thoughts disappear when the live wire touches him again.

The perpetually guilty part of him feels the torture is just, for what he has done. The rest of him is just waiting until it is over.

The hunters debate amongst themselves. Sam knows the answer.

"We're sorry," they offer as they shoot him (though they really aren't sorry. But that's alright).

Sam wakes up hours later with a strange white scar above his heart and the knowledge that Lucifer wasn't lying; he can't die. Sam isn't really sure if he's sorry about that or not. But all he can do is dust himself off and keep walking.

Sam keeps his phone on at all times. He takes it out, stares at it, willing it to ring, to show him Dean's calling. Bobby's tried calling, but Sam has ignored him. Any contact with him can get Bobby killed, especially if the hunters who tried to kill Sam learn that Sam is alive.

He still wants Dean to call. He waits for his phone to ring. He listens to the voicemail from the night he started the Apocalypse over and over. He waits for Dean to call.

He never does.

"Just give in to the inevitable. You are all alone. Your brother doesn't want you anymore, Sammy. You're mine."

Sam whispers "no," until he wakes up.

Three weeks later, his phone gets smashed in a fight with some vampires. Sam doesn't throw the phone away ("Sentimentality," whispers the devil. "Shut up," replies Sam).

The idea comes to him in the middle of the night, as he lies awake, ignoring Lucifer. Day by day the apocalypse is worsening. Major events are still rare, such as the earthquakes and forest fires, but more common than usual. It's mostly the small stuff, the evil oozing out of the cracks.

And people don't know what to do.

He spends three nights awake, feeling free from Lucifer's whispers, and concentrating on his work. A straightforward guide, based on Sam's memories. It would be better if he had John's old journal, but Dean has that. Still, it should be sufficient. He thinks about calling it: Hunting the Supernatural for Dummy's.

Dean would've laughed at that. Sam presses his lips together and finishes his work. He puts it up online.

Sam feels a vague sense of pride before remembering that he didn't deserve to feel that anymore.

Lucifer leans against the headboard, dressed like Bobby.

"So worthless, Sammy. Everything you try to do is just another useless attempt, you know. Deep down, you know how broken you are, don't you?"

Sam hums Metallica to himself until the devil goes away.

"The boy who started the Apocalypse."

Sam remembers when he used to be called other things, like psychic-boy and freak. It's sad, that those were preferable.

"I hear you've been drinking demons dry. That true?" The demon smirks, and Sam just smiles.

"You guys just love to monologue, don't you?"

The demon slits its wrist, and Sam flinches. The smell, the sight . . . it's intoxicating.

"Look at you," the demon says scathingly. Sam realizes he's shaking. "Just a pathetic junkie, now."

Sam swallows convulsively. "Yeah. That's me," he agrees, to the demon's surprise. He begins reciting an exorcism, triggering the demon to attack, but he manages to hold it off long enough for the exorcism to take hold and eject the demon.

Sam stares down at the blood, and even bends down to drink, but the sound of a car driving by shocks him back to his senses.

"So weak, Sammy," Lucifer whispers, as Dean. "You don't deserve to live."

Sam doesn't have an answer to that.

"Just passing through, stranger?"

Sam almost, just almost, snorts. The amount of times that line has been used on Dean . . . Sam's thoughts shut down quickly. "That's right," he replies quietly. The girl looks him over.

"What's that scar from?"

Sam blinks. He nearly asks which scar (there are so many), but she's pointing at his neck. He shows his teeth in a fake smile. "Knife fight," he murmurs, though to be more precise, it was a knife fight with some demons.

"How did you live?" the girl asks, fascinated.

"I didn't," Sam says, completely honest this time. Just for fun. The girl is thrown, mumbles something else, and when Sam ignores her, she sidles away.

Sam quietly swears to himself. He's already forgotten his high-flying ideals, trying to sympathize with people. Maybe it's impossible. Sam's hand is tight around his water (he hasn't drank, not alcohol, not demon blood, not since he left Dean). But how can he? Being around people just reminds him of how he started all of this, how he's ended the world. And he is only human (well, mostly). There's only so much guilt he can handle without going crazy.

"So weak," sneers Lucifer. Sam refuses to look at the face of his father. He hates when the devil uses that face, because it draws up a terrible mixture of hatred, guilt, and love, all mixed together. It's better than when he uses Dean's face, though.

"I know I am," he responds, breaking his recent rule to give the devil the silent treatment. Just another broken promise. Because Sam is weak.

"So give in. Take the easy way out, say yes." Lucifer urges.

He has arguments on the tip of his tongue, but there's no point. He just says "no." Over, and over, and over, and over, and—

It's a bad week. Sam took out a poltergeist, but not before a kid got caught in the crossfire. A group of demons killed him two times in a row before he managed to get away, simply because they were distracted by an unfortunate curious person, who ended up dead. And now, Sam's left with no money, no food, no shelter, and a broken down car. Oh, and it's raining.

He drops off to sleep, and Lucifer's waiting, as always. Thankfully, he appears in his vessel, Nick. "Why even try?" he laughs. "Look at yourself."

Sam snaps. He wakes up, takes out his gun and shoots himself in the head. Once, twice, three times before screaming out his rage and running away. By the time he comes to himself again, he's barefoot, feet bleeding and in the middle of some abandoned road. It's not long before he's sobbing, kneeling on the asphalt. He can't keep doing this. But Sam keeps on. Doggedly. Tiredly. Despairingly. A whole host of adverbs that add up to him being hopeless.

He's on a hunt in Massachusetts when he sees Dean.

It's a spirit of some kind, with the penchant for choking its victim to death. Surprisingly, Dean's the one being choked. Normally it's Sam. Of course, 'normal' is a word with a huge depth of misunderstood meaning and old pain.

Dean's close to unconscious, his eyes barely tracking Sam as he leans over him, checking his pulse, making sure his airway is clear.

"You're going to be okay," Sam says desperately. "I got the spirit, don't worry. I've got you."

Dean slips away, then, into unconsciousness. Sam doesn't blame him. Sam's supposed to be on another hemisphere, for crying out loud. And here he just happens to end up at the same hunt. Dean probably hates him for that.

Sam carries Dean back to his motel room, takes care of him. It's like old times, except it's not, because Sam has new scars (a lot of them) from different deaths, and Dean looks older, and it's just time. Time and words between them, and Sam's too much of a coward to stick around and get hurt some more.

Dean's stirring, and Sam gathers his stuff. He briefly hovers over his brother, wishing for all the world he could just stay, stay and have Dean be his brother again.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry, for everything. I just . . ." Sam swallows, and Dean's gaze is growing sharper. "Take care of yourself," he whispers, and leaves.

Surprisingly, Lucifer doesn't come that night. Sam's not sure whether to be wary or relieved, but he's too raw and emotional, so he's pathetically grateful.

After seeing Dean, things get more painful. Now he's just running. Running from memories, from Lucifer, from the world.

"Hey man, are you doing alright?"

Sam glances up blearily. It's a homeless man who is watching him. "Define 'alright,'" Sam replies hoarsely.

The man frowns. "What do you need, son?"

Sam laughs hollowly. "Just tell me it's worth it, to keep going."

The man's eyes get intense, focused. "It's worth it. Don't give up. It feels like you can't get anywhere, that you're going to live forever in this hell. You won't. This world's worth living for."

Sam blinks, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye. "I'm just so tired," he confesses to the stranger. "I'm so alone."

The man reaches out, gripping Sam's shoulder. "No one's ever alone," he says comfortably. "It's a lie that tries to worm its way into all of us, but there's hope, son. There is."

Sam closes his eyes. "Thank you," he finally murmurs, pushing himself to his feet, but when he opens his eyes, the man is gone. That night, for the first time in a long time, Sam prays.

Lucifer's not happy with him. Sam wonders if he's not on schedule for the devil. There's a slight feeling of satisfaction in that.

Sam becomes a whirlwind. Hunt after hunt. Demons, monsters, anything in his way. He can't die, and that means he can defeat whatever comes across his path. Sam's even been mauled and come through. He kind of wonders what would happen if a limb were amputated, though. Would Lucifer want a vessel with only one arm?

Then, Lucifer begins to use pain. Sam should've expected it, but up to that point, Lucifer had been all smooth words and sympathetic. Like he was trying to get on Sam's good side.

Even the devil can get frustrated, apparently.

He rips into Sam, tearing him to pieces. It's all in Sam's head (it is, it really is) but it feels like he's really being destroyed and burned alive. When Satan's feeling particularly vicious, he dresses up as Dean. On bad nights, Sam is tricked into thinking that this is what Dean was, in his stint in hell (you put him there, Sam. You did that and ended the world to boot). Good nights, he's lucid enough to know he deserves it, and who better to punish him than the person whose life Sam has destroyed?

He's tracking down a rogue werewolf when Dean shows up. Dean's a distraction, and the werewolf—in human form—gets a jump on him.

Dirty hands grab the back of Sam's hair and his chin. Sam knows what's going to happen a split second before it does. The last thing he sees before the werewolf breaks his neck is Dean's wide eyes, mouth open, about to scream Sam's name.

Before he opens his eyes, he knows where he is. He's home, in every sense of the word. At least, what was once his home.

"Dean?" he asks softly.

A bitten off curse, a squealing of the wheels, and the Impala's nearly thrown off the side of the road. Sam sits up, calm in the face of Dean's little freak out. There's a gun pointed at his head.

Sam smiles, a tad sardonically. "That won't work. Trust me."

"What are you?" Dean hisses.

"Sam Winchester, ex-demon blood junkie, Lucifer's dress to the prom." Sam's surprised at his own sarcasm. He hasn't been sarcastic in months. It's not just because of Dean, though, Sam can tell it's his own defensive system kicking in. Because option number two is to break down sobbing. That wouldn't go over well.

"Nice try. Let's go again." Dean cocks his gun.

Sam slumps against the seat, running his fingers over the familiar leather. "I'm sorry I couldn't do the whole different hemisphere thing. Didn't really have the heart to leave the USA, you know? But we can split the states in half, if you want."

Dean's just staring at him like he's a ghost. "Sam?" His voice cracks.

"That's me."

Dean won't let him leave. Sam's not sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing.

"Bobby, tell me something that will make sense. I tried silver, holy water . . ."

Sam can't hear Bobby's reply.

"What do I do with it?"

Bobby says something, and Dean's eyes cut over to Sam.

"I'll be there in a day with it," Dean mutters. So Sam's supposed to be taken to Bobby's. Probably to be shut up in the panic room. Sam represses a shudder.

"Where's Cas?" Sam asks hesitantly.

Dean glowers at him. "Busy," he says tersely.

Sam rubs a recently-freed hand across his face and Dean's eyebrows jump.

"Didn't I—"

"Dean, you were the one who taught me how to get out of ropes. C'mon, man. I thought you were better at tying people up." The sarcasm comes out again in full force.

"Stop pretending to be him," Dean growls.

Sam rolls his eyes, an action that feels foreign with how old it is. "Okay, so I'll what, start acting like someone else? I can pretend to be you, if that'll make you feel better. 'Hey, I'm Dean. I'm a jerk who loves to be stubborn."

Dean's face spasms at the old nickname, and Sam regrets using it.

"Look, Dean, I don't know what you're doing here, but I'm tired, alright? Just let me get back to hunting. I'll stick to the east coast and you can take the west, unless you'd rather have the other, that way we won't run across each other, right?"

Dean sinks down onto a chair. "Sam?" he whispers.

"You getting it now?"

"Sam, how . . ." Dean trails off, eyes dark as he stares at Sam.

Sam massages his neck. It's still sore from being broken. "Lucifer doesn't want me dying," he says simply. "You know. Can't say yes when you're dead."

Dean clasps his hands together. An old habit that he always used to hide whenever his hands were in danger of shaking. Sam's eyes suddenly burn. He's missed Dean so much, and any longer in his presence and he's going to break.

"Dean, just let me leave. Please."

"Sammy," Dean breathes. The name skitters across Sam's skin like fire, and Sam stands up violently, backing away from Dean. Dean's between him and the door.

"Stop it," he chokes out. "Don't . . ."

Dean's hands are raised, like he's trying to calm Sam. Dean's obviously shaking now. "Sam . . ."

"What are you doing, Dean?" Sam spits, backing up until he hits the motel wall. "What do you want from me? I stayed away. Just like you said. Weaker together, right? So why? Why?"

Dean has no answer, but he won't move. Sam closes his eyes.

It's hours later, and they're in the Impala. Air thick between them, everything broken. Dean's face is twisted in a kind of anguish. "Sam, I didn't . . . I just . . . I didn't know."

Sam feels something in him harden, and he snarls. "Didn't know what? I don't need your pity. Not anymore."

"That's not . . ." Dean hesitates before whispering, "I missed you."

Sam's frozen. He's imagined Dean saying those words a million times. The thought flashes through his mind, and won't leave: this must be Lucifer. It's another way to break him. To get him to say yes.

"Lucifer?" he questions uncertainly. Dean's face folds and he pulls the car over, his fingers gripping the wheel tightly.

"Sam, how many times have you died?" Dean isn't looking at him.

Sam blinks. "Uh, I haven't been keeping track," he responds. "But most of them left scars, so I could probably count them up. I'd say over thirty."

Dean makes some kind of noise that could be a sob (but that can't be right, because Dean never cries), and looks over at Sam. It's Sam's turn to avoid his gaze.

"What have you been doing?" Dean murmurs.

"Hunting," Sam says.

Dean blinks. "Really?"

"What else would I do?"

Dean doesn't have a response to that. Sam's tempted to tell Dean about his epiphany, but he figures Dean will just laugh at him. Plus, it's not like Sam's done anything about his idea of helping people recently, like the hypocrite he is.

"May I go now?" Sam finally breaks the silence.

"What?"

"You know. There's a hunt a couple states over I was going to take care of."

Dean looks at him carefully. "Do you want to . . . hunt with me?"

Sam laughs, and it's a hollow imitation of a real laugh. "We're better off apart. We got a better chance of dodging Lucifer and Michael and this whole damn thing, if we just go our own ways," he says, quoting what Dean told him exactly.

Dean's face crumples further.

"I didn't . . ."

"You meant what you said," Sam says coldly, cutting him off. "But it doesn't matter. What matters is the mission."

Dean obviously didn't expect that. "Huh?"

"Saving people, hunting things. We should never have put family first, like you said. It makes us weaker. Way I figure, I'll just help as many people as possible before Lucifer takes down the world."

Dean curses under his breath, looking lost. "Sam, you just . . . are you okay?"

Sam quirks an eyebrow at that. "Dean. When in the last few years have either of us come close to being okay?"

There is a bark of surprised laughter from Dean, and Sam's lips curl upward without his permission.

"How about we get some food?"

Sam blinks, and allows something warm to grow inside of him. "Sounds good."

Lucifer is unusually cruel, the first night Sam is back with Dean. His threats are worse, the words he say bite far too close to home, and the torture is brutal. Sam wakes, gasping, to find Dean watching him carefully.

"Nightmare?"

"Something like that," Sam mutters.

"What aren't you saying?" Dean asks bluntly.

"Everything."

"Sam."

"What do you want me to say, Dean? Did you think that us being back together, that would just work out?" Sam's sitting up now, tension buzzing under his skin, and he wants to run, to fight, to do something.

In contrast, Dean relaxes in the face of Sam's frantic state.

"Sammy. I'm not asking anything from you. But if you want to, you can tell me, alright?"

Sam sighs, falling back into his pillow. "Lucifer. He comes in my dreams, trying to get me to say yes."

Even in the dim night, Sam can see how Dean stiffens.

"What does he—"

Sam cuts him off. "Don't worry about it."

"How can I not?"

In the dark, Sam feels unusually raw and emotional, so he is cruel. "You didn't when we split up, why start up again?"

Dean flinches. "You're the one who suggested it," he says defensively.

"And you're the one who left me at my lowest point," Sam growls. "I begged you, and you said no. So you can stop pretending to care, alright? I know you just want to keep an eye on me and make sure I don't say yes."

A painful moment of silence goes by, and Sam waits to be thrown out.

"Go to sleep, Sammy."

A part of Sam wants to rebel. To just walk out the door, and be done with this nightmare.

The rest of him just wants to sleep.

"Don't let him get to you, Sammy," Dean whispers, and it's so like Dean, so like what they used to be, that he can't help but want to believe it.

"You know he's trying to figure out how to kill you. How to rip you apart from the inside out so that you won't be a burden anymore."

Nine times out of ten, Lucifer's not lying. Sam wakes up slowly, blinking at the ceiling.

"I'm sorry."

He turns his head to look at Dean, who's hunched over, elbows on his knees. Sam just waits.

"I . . . I was scared, Sammy. Angels were twisting us around, and you were slipping away, and I didn't know if I could help or if I was just making it worse."

Sam still kept quiet.

Dean changes the subject. "When you went in the covenant, did you expect to come out?"

It's an easier question than what Sam had expected. "Of course," he lies fluidly.

Dean swallows convulsively, loud enough for Sam to hear in the silence. "I know you're lying. Why didn't you want to live anymore?"

"Monsters don't deserve to live."

"You're not a monster, Sam," Dean murmurs.

"You told me I was," Sam returns.

"I know, in the hotel room. And I shouldn't've said it, then, I'm sorry."

"And on the phone?"

Dean looks up sharply. "I said sorry, on the phone."

"No, you called me a vampire. I have it, here." Sam twists and finds his phone, tossing it to Dean without a second glance.

The seconds pass as Dean listens. He actually gasps aloud, like some overdramatic chick in a movie, and Sam lifts himself up on one elbow.

His brother's as pale as a sheet. "I didn't say that."

Sam tenses. "I heard it."

"The angels changed it. Or Ruby."

Sam suddenly deflates as he rearranges his memories in order to acknowledge the new realities. "Oh."

"Sam." Dean's leaning forward, one hand barely touching Sam's bedspread. "I know I don't deserve it, here. But give me a second chance to prove that I can be your brother, man. Please."

Sam bites his lip. "I, Dean, are you being serious?" he asks without looking at him.

In reply, Dean's hand moves to grip Sam's wrist, and the hot burn of tears surprises Sam. He hasn't cried since . . . well, since Dean died in New Harmony.

"Sammy, we both screwed up big time. How 'bout we work together to make this right?" Dean whispers, as if he's afraid to ruin what is happening.

"That sounds good." Sam finally looks at Dean, and it's not Lucifer lying to him anymore, just his brother, vulnerable and scared. "That sounds really good."

"He's lying to you. He thinks you're a monster. He'll let you down, and you can't believe him. Just say yes."

Sam smiles. "No."

A/N: This is a really old fic I just re-found and decided to post. I was never happy with how the show handled the "split" between Sam and Dean in the beginning of Season 5, which I think is why I wrote this originally. Definitely an odd style for me, with the present tense and all, but if I remember correctly, I think I was experimenting. Hope you enjoyed!

Oh and for my more regular readers (side note: I love you all so much), I am finishing up my study abroad this week and headed to Maine for some family time. No internet up there, so it'll be a week before I post anything new.