Whenever I write, I always focus on delving deeper into the characters thoughts. I'm not good at AU's. -_- I feel so repetitive.

I am so obsessed with Supernatural it isn't even funny.

Spoilers for season five to season six-ish, maybe some seasons before that. Read at your own risk.

Also, the quotes are exactly correct cause I couldn't remember them and I was too lazy to re-watch the episodes, so bear with me!

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It had been a year ago today. He was sitting at the kitchen table and eating breakfast with Ben like any other day, but all he could think about was Sam.

God, Sammy. He hadn't thought of that name in a while–months, maybe. Not that he'd forgotten his pain in the ass little brother (no, never), but because it just hurt too damn much to even bring up his name, let alone all the memories that came with it. He could feel the guilt eating away at him every time he thought of Sam. And Hell, he just couldn't stand it.

Here he was, living the apple pie life with Lisa and Ben–the life Sam had always wanted, strived to get, almost got–while his brother was rotting away in the cage with Michael and Lucifer. And for what? What did Sam get in return? So he stopped the apocalypse and saved the people on Earth–he gave up everything, and all he got in return was spending the rest of eternity being tortured and who knows what else. It made him sick just thinking about it.

Dean pushed away his bowl of cereal because he couldn't stand to eat another bite or he would be puking it up in five seconds flat. He was eating goddamn cereal, just like every other morning of every day this past year. He hadn't even tried to save his brother. He doubted there was really anything he could do; he was in the deepest pits of Hell, maybe deeper, and no one had any idea where it was or how dangerous it would be to get him out.

Hell, no one knew if there even was a way to pull him out without sending Lucifer rampaging again. Sam didn't even have a chance at escape, and that hurt.

What was worse, though, was that Dean hadn't even tried. Some big brother he was. Once Sam had even suggested his "plan" to send Lucifer back to where he came from, Dean had gotten that heavy feeling in his gut, and all it made him wasn't to do was fall to his knees and just give up or beg and plead for Sam to not go through with it. It was still there; maybe a little less prominent, but there all the same.

Why had he ever agreed to that? The world could go screw itself for all he cared (he didn't stop to think that, if that had happened, neither of them would be here at all, but a selfish part of his mind told him that at least he wouldn't have been alone), he just wanted his little brother back. Apparently, that was too damn much to ask for.

He had no idea how he made it this long without Sam (aversion, maybe, or because of the promise he made to his brother), but he knew he probably wouldn't be able to hold on much longer, that was for sure. The guilt and regret were weighing too heavily on his shoulders, and he was tired. Always tired.

And when he thought he couldn't stand it anymore, Sam was there, telling him he'd been there for a goddamn year. This whole time Dean had been wallowing in guilt over his poor, doomed little brother, he'd found out he'd been here the whole time.

Dean wasn't quite sure what to feel. Some emotions he couldn't put names to, but others he was quite familiar with–anger, sadness, relief.

In the end, he opted in just hugging Sam as tight as his arms would allow him. You're home, he almost said–wanted to say–but he couldn't get the words past the lump in his throat that he would later deny having if ever asked. As much as he wanted to yell or cry or grin and jump around like a seven-year-old girl, something held him back. Or, more likely, someone. Sam was back, definitely, here in the flesh, but Dean felt something pulling and tugging; a gut feeling he learned that should never ignore (the hard way, of course).

He shouldn't trust Sam. He didn't know why, but he decided he should at least be on his toes. Plus, if Sam found out… He would definitely be in some deep shit. It wasn't long before he knew that his gut feeling had been terribly, accurately correct.

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"Bobby. Something is wrong with Sam."

He was panicking. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, though whether it was from fear or anger, or both, even; he couldn't tell. He'd been turned into a vampire, but that wasn't even the worst of it. No, he swore he'd seen Sam watch. His brother had just turned and watched (and fucking smirked for God's sake!) as he was infected with a monster's blood. God damn he was sure that made him a dead man.

What was wrong with his little brother? "It may just be Sam," Bobby told him, and he visibly shuddered. Whoever–whatever–that thing was, it wasn't Sam. There was no way.

Or did Lucifer really screw him up that bad?

After a run-in with the Goddess of Truth, Sam admitted it (though not really because of the Goddess herself as more of a little… pushing from Dean). Poor Sammy, couldn't feel a damn thing. He punched him, so hard across the face that he fell to the ground. How the fuck could he say that? If he'd thought that by telling Dean the truth (finally), he would get off easy, then he was far from right. He took out all of his anger and pent up frustrations out on his little brother, who just laid there and took it.

The rage and the fear–what is my little brother? Who is he? What has he become?–sliped through his fingers with every swing of his fist. Oh, he had the nerve to say he was sorry. It wasn't until Sam was far-gone into unconsciousness that Dean slowed his breathing and sat back, staring at the bloodied, broken mess that was once his brother's face. The anger was still there, of course. He'd been lied to, turned into one of the monsters that they hunted, all because of Sam's need to finish the hunt (which strangely reminded him of Dad, only more extreme), and then his brother told him he doesn't–can't–feel anything.

Now that he was thinking about it again, that anger was definitely still there, coming back full throttle. Dean gave another swift punch, to Sam's jaw this time, and instead of flinching, he felt oddly pleased at the resounding crack that echoed around his ears. His anger slowly faded to a dull reminder in the back of his mind, and he picked up his brother's limp body and headed back to their motel room.

His call to Castiel was (surprisingly) answered, and all he had to do was point to Sam to get his point across.

"You did this to him?" Cas asked, and the usually apathetic angel looked surprised.

Dean gave him a jerky nod. "Yeah, so?" The angel just shook his head. As soon as Sam woke up, Castiel was questioning him.

"How do you feel right now?"

"Fine, I guess. Sore, but I'll live."

Cas shook his head again. "No, not physically. Emotionally. What are you feeling?"

Sam's silence had Dean's gut churning with that terrible feeling again, and he did all he could not to bolt out of the room right then and there. This question shouldn't be that difficult, Sam.

"I don't know," Sam admitted quietly.

He felt as if the room was crashing in on him, drowning him in a pile of concrete and anguish. What the Hell did that mean? Was that his answer to everything?

Dean hadn't heard what Castiel said to him, but he looked up just in time to see the angel–sticking his arm into Sam's stomach. He trusted Cas, he really did (probably even more than Sam at the moment; and wasn't that just a bitch, because here he was trusting an angel over his own damn brother like Sam had done to him with a demon), but what was going on?

"What the fuck are you doing?" Dean didn't notice he had yelled or was panicking until his sentence came to an end and he was sucking in breaths like he would never be able to breathe again. Sam was different, but that didn't mean he wasn't Dean's little brother anymore. It didn't mean he didn't care. Instinct was screaming , and that wasn't something he could ignore because he'd been going on it since he was four years old.

Sam's head was thrown back in a silent scream, and in response Dean let out a strangled cry of, "Sammy–!"

"Relax, Dean," Castiel murmured and removed his arm, his expression tight (or at least more so than usual, anyway). "I was just checking. There's… nothing there."

After pulling himself together, Dean's eyebrows furrowed and he said, "That's good, right?"

"Not at all. Sam's soul is missing."

The breath he'd just gotten back was knocked out of his chest again. "What?"

Cas was pacing around the room, his expression one of concentration. "Whoever pulled him out didn't retrieve his soul."

Dean didn't know when it started becoming too hard to breathe in and too hard to breathe out. His vision changed suddenly from color to color with black spotting everything else, and he could feel his body swaying dangerously.

And then there was nothing.

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He woke with what seemed like a heart attack as he felt it pumping in his chest with the speed of sound. Dean opened his mouth to speak or groan or at least do something that wasn't just laying there, but then he decided against it and tried to figure out where he was.

He took a moment for his disoriented mind to make his vision focus again, which was when he noticed he was still in he and Sam's motel room.

Sam… He ignored the spinning room as he shot up, and he murmured, "Sammy? You here?"

"Yeah." Sam was sitting on the other bed (and his face looked miraculously healed thanks to Cas), but he was watching him with blank blue-green eyes. Sam was there, definitely, but he wasn't really there. Suddenly it seemed like, "The eyes are the window to the soul," was probably the most honest quote Dean had ever heard.

All he could see in Sam's eyes was a vast nothingness.

I'll fix you, Sammy, Dean thought, no matter what I have to do. No matter where I have to go, I'll find a way to save you, little brother. You're all I have left, and I'm so, so sorry.

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