1.
Sam screamed.
He'd woken up.
But still he could feel the cold. It was so cold.
When he was little Dean used to tell him to imagine lava. Lava pouring from a volcano, boiling-blistering-burning hot.
"Think about the lava. Concentrate on that and you won't feel so cold anymore," he'd said. And for a seven-year old with absolute faith in his big brother, it had worked.
Now he couldn't remember what warmth felt like.
"Sammy?"
Dean?
Dean was here. He focused on his brother.
"It's okay. Sammy, you're out. You're home now."
If he could just touch his brother, he knew, he would be warm again. The cold would go away.
Dean laid a hand against his cheek. His touch was so cold it burned.
He wasn't out.
2.
Sam woke up and he couldn't breathe.
Not strangulation again?
But this was different. Why was it different?
He reached out and began to scrape at the ceiling above him. It crumbled like dirt. It was dirt.
Minutes later he emerged out of a grave in Stull Cemetery, gasping for air. He noted with vague, breathless interest that he had a headstone. Sam Winchester 1983-2009. He'd crawled out of his own grave, just like Dean had.
Dean?
There was a grave right next to his. The headstone read, Dean Winchester 1979-2009.
The same year as me, he thought. Then, Dean's dead?
The earth churned next to him as Dean climbed out of his own grave. His skin was beginning to rot and fall off. There was a bullet wound in the side of his head.
"There you are, Sammy," he said, in a tone that belonged to someone else.
He wasn't out.
2.5
He woke up.
Dean shot him in the head.
He wasn't out.
2.6
He woke up.
Dean shot himself in the head.
He wasn't out.
2.7
He woke up.
Dean was dead.
2.8
He woke up.
Dean was dead.
2.9
He woke up.
Dean was dead.
And as always, it was his fault.
3.
"It's an endless cycle," he explained to the Dean dying in his arms. "It goes on and on and on and on and—"
Dean used his last breath to bring the demon knife up and stab it into his little brother's heart. He twisted it. Then he was dead.
"—on and on, forever on and on," Sam explained desperately to Dean's corpse. The corpse just laughed at him as blood bubbled over Sam's lips and dripped down.
"And on and on and on—"
He wasn't out.
4.
Sam woke up.
He was crying.
Dean hurried into the room. "Sam! Hey, what is it? You okay?"
Sam shook his head no.
Dean gave him a rueful kinda-smile. "Okay, stupid question. But it'll get better, I promise."
Depending on which Dean this was, that promise could mean everything. Or nothing.
It's probably nothing. But then Dean rested his hand on Sam's shoulder, and it was warm.
"Dean?" he asked, uncertain.
"The one and only."
"How did—?"
"Cas pulled you out."
It's too good to be true.
"Where—?"
"At Bobby's."
He recognized the bedroom now. It's too good to be true.
"And you're…" Dean waited. "…real?"
Dean's face crumpled a bit, but he still managed a small smile. "Yeah, Sammy," he said, voice soft. "I'm real."
Sam reached out and pulled his brother into a hug.
Dean snapped his neck.
That's right, Sam thought. I'd forgotten how to cry a long time ago. It was too good to be true.
He wasn't out.
5.
Sam stood under the streetlight, watching Dean and the Braedens smile and talk over dinner.
Dean had kept his promise.
So Sam made a promise to himself: he would let Dean have this. He'd let his brother have this apple pie life in suburbia. He wouldn't force Dean to choose his apocalypse-causing little brother over his best chance at happiness.
He would just…stay away.
I could hunt, he thought.
I have a lot to make up for.
As he turned to go, he heard the sound of shattering glass. He saw the small family jump in their seats. Dean stood up and held a hand out to Ben, signaling him to stay put. He hadn't taken more than two cautious steps towards the door before the demons who'd broken in through a back window burst into the dining room and gutted him. Lisa screamed when they slit Ben's throat. Then she fell silent, too.
Sam stood frozen under the streetlight.
He wasn't out.
The scenery began to melt around him, promising a hundred a thousand a million more variations of the same thing, on and on and on and on and—
4664.
Sam screamed.
He'd woken up.