It isn't supposed to happen this way.

Then again, supposed to is such a fragile word.

But here Dean is, smashed against the floor under Cain, bloody and bruised and aching. And Cain's words are echoing in his mind. Taunting him. Reminding him of the monster he will become.

"First, you'd kill Crowley. There'd be some strange, mixed feelings on that one, but you'd have your reason. You'd get it done, no remorse. And then you'd kill the angel – Castiel. Now, that one ... that I suspect would hurt something awful. And then would come the murder you'd never survive, the one that would finally turn you into as much of a savage as it did me..."

Dean knows who Cain is talking about before he even says the name. Of course Dean knows. He's been trying to save Sam since they were kids. Since his dad warned him that if he couldn't save him, he would have to kill him. But the words are different now. The meaning is different. If Dean can't save himself, he'll have to kill Sam.

Yes, it's all very different now.

It's not news to Dean, but it still hurts. Still bothers him to hear the words out loud. His heart is pounding so loud he can feel it in his head. He sees the knife tucked into Cain's waistband. Eyes it for only a moment, trying not to give himself away. He needs it. It's his only chance.

Cain raises the First Blade above him. Dean reaches for the second blade quickly, but his fingers fall through empty space, making his stomach drop the way he does when he's going up the stairs and thinks there's another step when there's not, and his foot falls through the air and collides against the ground with a thickening thud.

He's done something wrong. Underestimated the distance. Overestimated the difference. Something. He doesn't know. It doesn't matter now, because the blade he needs isn't in his hand, and the one he doesn't need is diving into his chest.

White hot pain erupts. He's felt this before, but that doesn't lessen the blow. He chokes on his breath. Chokes on the liquid filling his lungs. His ears are ringing and his body is vibrating.

For a moment, he feels only the pain. It's his entire existence. His entire life. And then...he feels nothing. Nothing at all. And he is floating, far away. Cain's face dances in his vision.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he says, but he doesn't sound sorry at all.

Dean's eyes lose focus. He has died enough times to know what it feels like. To know when it's over.

And it's over.

He sees Sam. Ten-year-old Sam. The Sam who ran to him when he was happy, slept in the same bed with him when he had nightmares, snapped at him with the same sarcastic remarks that Dean specializes in now. He remembers the time they went to the fair and Sam was still too short to ride the roller coaster, because before Sam was too tall for his own good, he was a scrawny little kid who was small for his age. Sam had grown upset and glared at the ride attendant, and Dean thought maybe he would curse him or threaten him, but instead he walked away and won himself a toy gun at one of the booths. He broke the toy guy later, telling Dean is was stupid and so was the fair.

By the time Sam was tall enough to ride the roller coaster, he didn't want to anymore. That was the year he started to hate Halloween, and the year he started to hate Dean. At least, that's the way it felt to Dean. Sam was always arguing with John, and turned on Dean whenever the older boy would try to take the side of his father. Sam didn't want this life. Didn't want any part of it. Dean understood.

He hoped to make it up to him one Halloween, but he hadn't learned yet that Sam found Halloween insulting. Wasn't amused with the people who dressed up as the monsters who tried to kill him every day. And when Dean suggested they go trick-or-treating for the first time, Sam looked ready to punch him. Or cry. Sam looked like he wanted to cry a lot back then.

Dean wants to say he tried. Wants to say he tried with everything he had to make Sam stay. But he didn't. He thought he did, once, back when Sam first ran away to go to college. But now he knows. Now he understands.

"Dean!"

Someone shakes him. Hard. Hands that are firm and tough. Hands that belong to his brother.

"Dean, stay with me. Cas! Castiel, where are you?"

The corners of Dean's lips turn up in a smile. He grabs hold of Sam's wrist, forcing his little brother's attention back on him. Sam is here. Real Sam. The one who ran away, but never really left him. No, just left the life they lead. But never Dean. Never Dean.

"Sa-" He chokes again, coughing. Sam's eyebrows furrow together. Tears fill his eyes.

"You're okay, Dean," he says. "You're okay."

But Dean isn't okay, and he's died enough times to know that. He knows.

"Sam," he whispers. "Sammy."

It isn't supposed to happen this way. But here he is, wrapped up in his brother's arms, feeling numb but satisfied that maybe this is all finally over. That maybe none of this will matter anymore. Not the Mark of Cain. Not the demon inside him. Not anything.

He thinks maybe now he can give Sam the life he wanted. A life away from danger and monsters. A life where he's tall enough to ride the roller coasters and actually cares. A life where he doesn't look like he wants to cry all the time.

He's crying now, though. The last tears. The last tears Dean will ever see. The last ones he wants to see.

And with his last breath, Dean says Sam's name one more time and hopes it will be enough.

XxX

Pain shoots through his chest, electrocuting him. His senses comes back to him all at once, and he realizes he's choking, drowning, unable to breathe. He wonders if he's back in Hell. Being tortured again. Being ripped apart. Made to suffer.

Someone calls his name and then yells for help. Hands touch his arms, push him down firmly but gently. Not like someone in Hell would do. He almost recognizes those hands. But he's still choking. Still feels something blocking his airway, somewhere deep in his throat.

"Dean, we need you to calm down," a voice is saying. Dean can't calm down, and he doesn't know why someone is suggesting he to do so.

There's a scraping in his throat, a sharp pain, and then everything opens up. He can breathe again. He can breathe.

He melts into a fit of coughs. Someone has a hand on his back. Dean isn't sure when he sat up, but he knows he did, and he knows something isn't right. He can't make sense of everything. His brain is foggy and disorientated.

A cup is pushed into his palm and a familiar voice tells him to drink. Dean does so without thinking.

"You're okay, Dean," the voice says. It sounds relieved. Close to tears. "You're okay."

Dean realizes it's Sam, and he dreads for a moment that Castiel brought him back to life. That Castiel didn't keep him dead when that's all he wanted. This isn't the way it's supposed to be. Dean wants to stay dead. Wants to be free from the curse, from the Mark, from everything. It isn't fair.

"We need you to step outside."

"But-"

"We need to check over him. We have to assess the damage. We'll call you back when we're finished."

There's a resigned sigh. Sam again. "Fine. But please..."

"I know, Sam."

Dean's vision finally starts to clear. He's in a hospital room, connected to tubes and machines and things that make noise whenever he moves. If Cas brought him back, he wouldn't need to be here. Something is wrong. He's alive, for starters.

"Dean, can you hear me?"

He nods. A man in a white coat is in front of him, shining a light into his eyes. God, he wishes he would stop. He's not blind.

"My name is Doctor Ryland. You're in the hospital."

The fogginess in his head starts to clear, giving way to frustration."What happened? Why am I alive?"

"That's a good question, Dean. Looks like someone up there is on your side," the doctor says. "We need to take you in for some x-rays, okay?"

"X-rays for what?" Dean snaps. The only thing that hurts is his head and his throat, and Dean knows that's not right.

Shit.

"Sam– "

"Your brother is outside. We'll bring him in once we're done."

But that's not Dean's concern. He thought, after all these years, that Sam would be smarter than that. Smart enough not to sell his soul to a demon to bring Dean back. How could Castiel let this happen? How could Crowley let this happen?

"God damn it," he mutters.

XxX

Dean doesn't see Sam in the hallway when they take him to the x-ray or when they bring him back. Everyone is looking at him funny. And they all look faintly familiar to Dean. Their faces. Their expressions. Maybe Dean has been hurt too many times. So many times that everyone's concerns blend together into one person.

The doctor stands by Dean's bed and shakes his head.

"I can't explain it. The edema has vanished. The internal contusions are healed. Your vitals are good.
You got to have some kind of angel watching over you."

Dean rolls his eyes. Watching over? Yeah, right. "I guess it takes more than being stabbed to kill me."

"Stabbed?" The doctor flips through his charts, frowning. "Dean, you weren't stabbed. You were in a car accident with your brother and your father."

Dean feels like someone ripped the world out from under his feet.

"My father is dead," he says shortly. "I think you have the wrong chart."

"Your father John is alive. He's in a room down the hall. You, John, and Sam were all brought in via helicopter after your car was struck by a semi. You are Dean, aren't you?"

"A semi?" Dean asks. What the hell? This isn't right at all.

"I think I need to order another scan of your head. Can you tell me what the last thing you remember is?" The doctor flashes another light into his eyes. "Follow my light."

Dean pushes his hand away, feeling annoyed and confused. "I need Sam. Where is Sam?"

Because Sam will know what's going on. Maybe Sam had to lie to the doctors. Had to tell them a different story to make everything seem plausible. Probably picked the accident from years ago because he knows all the details. He was the one driving, after all. Was the only one conscious through everything.

"Sam is in the waiting room. I'll have a nurse fetch him. We're gonna do another scan of your head. Hang tight while I get that scheduled."

Dean lets the doctor leave without protest. There's nothing wrong with his head.

He sighs and scratches absentmindedly at his arm, glancing down at the familiar sight of the Mark. Only it's not there. Nothing is there. Only smooth skin and no trace of anything else.

Did Cas do it? Did he fix him? Heal him? Get rid of the curse?

"Hey, Dean," a voice says. Sam.

Dean looks up at him. Has to blink a few times. Feels the color and life drain from his body. That's Sam, all right, but it isn't his Sam. This is the Sam that ran away from home. The Sam that hates Halloween and roller coasters. The Sam from, what – eight, nine years ago now? Twenty-two-year-old Sam.

And Dean suddenly realizes what's wrong here.

"Son of a bitch."