Sam surveyed his surroundings, the cheap motel that seemed incredibly different from the rooms he had spent his life in. It had the same dingy curtains, and the shower had the same water-mold smell. The bathroom mirror was cracked like so many others, and the heater made a familiar low rumble. There was the standard black leather bound bible in the top drawer, and for the first time Sam realized how ridiculous it was –if they were God-faring people, wouldn't they have their own bible? The TV got as much reception, the blond at the check out was just as interested in her job, the nightstand had a leg missing, replaced by a Webster's Dictionary. But it was different, because there was only one bed, and only one bag. Sam got in the shower, the water pelting down on him, and he didn't have to save water. He chose what channel to watch, and if he wanted he could shut off the box and read without being criticized.

But when he got up in the morning, coffee would not be waiting for him. No one would tug at him or tell him to get up, or even care if he did get up. Sam stared at the ceiling for two days, and his cell phone didn't ring. No one knocked on his door, no one made small talk, no one called him a girl or commented on the hot brunette that was renting the room next door, on how she didn't seem to be having a great time with her fiancé ("Maybe she could have a great time with me,"Dean said, eyebrows waggling). The room smelled different without Dean, felt different and sounded different. Sam could still hear Dean in his head, on how his eyes were fixed on Sam's. Sam drowned in beer and whiskey and Tequila, trying to flood out the Do it, Sammy! Do it! voices. His dreams were vivid and broken and hot. Don't make me do it myself. Don't make me do it myself. He tried not to think about Dean at all, about how the water had ran in rivulets down his skin and through his hair, mixing with salty rivers. Sam passed out and when he woke up everything was pristine and beautiful, and he hated it. The sun was shining and all he could do was

Dean lifting the gun under his neck, the barrel pointed up under his jaw, hand shaking as the cold metal pressed into his skin. "There is no cure, Sammy. I will pull this trigger myself so help me God, I will."

remember.

He took another swing of Jim Beam.

Dean's body spasming, teeth elongating, nails growing, dropping the gun, falling to his knees as his muscles contracted.

And another

Dean lunging at him, jaws snapping.

He finally raised his hand, the trigger pulsing under his fingertips.

How easily the knife had slipped from its sheath in his boot and into Dean, like it belonged. Dean had gone back to normal, his face resetting as he gasped. "Love you, Sammy, love you."

Sam had tried everything to move the path, but he knew this would be the only end of it. He pulled the trigger, the bottle slipping from his hands.

Dean had been tracking Sam for days after he had run off. Sam's headaches had been getting closer together and lasting longer. He said he had tried to 'change it,' even talked Dean out of this job, and the next one, and the one after that. Dean didn't understand why, didn't understand how every time they bypassed one job Sam would have a vision and decline the next one. He had woken up the next morning to find the bed next to his empty, Sam's stuff gone, the only thing left his cell phone and a picture of them on Dean's seventeenth birthday, which was usually in Sam's wallet. They had been on their way to hunt a werewolf in Tennessee when Sam started screaming in the night, and after Sam disappeared, he put Bobby on the job.

He found Sam's motel and asked the teenager that worked the desk for a key. One charming smile and she had been happy to oblige, small-talking about how he was the only one to rent a room in weeks. When she opened the door and screamed, Dean just knew long before he looked inside, because on the back of the picture in Sam's even hand it had read

"I'm your brother and I would die for you. Even in your place"