OH MY GOSH GUYS IM SO SORRY. I know I left you all with inexcusable cliffhangers and I am writing them right now! They will be updated this month! Thank you all so much for the favorites reviews and follows! Appreciate you all!

In everything that had happened, Sam never hated his brother. The one who'd raised him, loved him, cared for him, given him his first beer—how could you hate what had always loved you? Really truly hate? Sam didn't know because he couldn't do it. Sure, Dean was the bold extrovert that everybody loved and simultaneously Daddy's perfect soldier, capable of jumping head first into danger and sport his battle scars as trophies while Sam saw them as tallies—reasons upon reasons why they would never be normal. Sam just wanted to talk, wanted to learn, wanted to know. Despite how he was raised, he talked first and shot later. But that didn't mean—

"C'mon, Sammy!" Dean's voice rang through the bunker, awfully loud and booming. "Let's have a beer! Talk about it!" It was mockery, and Sam's heart thudded like the inside of his chest was shedding bullets. "I'm tired of playing. Let's finish this game!" If anything scared Sam, it was the adrenaline that rode beneath Dean's words, the way he relished this game of hide-and-kill. They were brothers.

What he'd said all those years ago still stood. It would always stand.

You're my brother, and I'd die for you.

"Do it." Dean said, his eyes black pits. Sam's knife was at his throat, and Dean was defenseless. Still he leered, daring Sam to test everything he'd ever said. "It's all you."

For the most awful moment of his life, Sam almost considered it.

But he wouldn't do that. He wouldn't send Dean back to hell.

"No." The demon knife hit the ground with a clatter. Dean looked at him for a moment with someone else's dead green eyes. He and the knife vanished.

Sam felt a white hot pain shoot through his back, and suddenly he was in a different time.

"NO!" Dean was screaming his denial to Azazel, to the world, to God that nothing would take his little brother away. Always fighting the inevitable.

"Shh, Sammy," Dean croons sardonically in his ear, the metal of the demon knife cold against the burning of Sam's blood. His brother twists the handle, severing Sam's spinal cord in one efficient slice. Sam's frozen, his muscles locked stiff, a screaming fire racing through his blood. But he can't move.

Jake Talley had stabbed him in the back.

Dean had stabbed him in the back.

"Sam. Sammy. Hey, c'mere, let me look at you. Hey, Sammy. It's not even that bad. It's not even that bad, Sam. You're gonna be just fine. I'm gonna take care of you, I'll patch you up. You'll be as good as new. That's my job, right? Take care of my pain in the ass little brother...Sam?"

"One brother stabbing the other in the back," Dean muses, pressing the hilt even further into Sam, who wished he could scream. "Some things never change, do they?" Sam's legs turn to putty and he slumps. The part of his brain that isn't jammed wishes that the knife would come out, but Dean just crouches to the ground with him in an almost gentle motion, keeping the knife where it is.

"Sam? SAMMY! No. No no no no no. Oh, god. Oh, god, Sammy."

"Say hey to god for me, Sammy." Dean's on his knees and Sam is almost cradled against him, the back of his limp head resting on Dean's shoulder. The hand of his brother that isn't wrapped around the knife is actually wound around Sam's stomach, pressing them together. The not-so-bad thought enters Sam's mind that there's still Dean in there; that even as Dean kills him he still wants them together. The more rational thought says that Dean just wants to keep the knife in place, but Sam ignores that as his vision starts to gray and he stares drunkenly at the wall.

"Oh, god," Dean chokes, cradling Sam's head.

"All I can say is thank god," Dean is saying, suddenly conversational as things in Sam start to slow. "You've been a real pain in the ass, dude." Sam tries to open his mouth, and when he tries to talk blood dribbles down his lips, salty and warm. This isn't bad. He's here with his brother, isn't he? Sam valiantly attempts to move his arm, but it's like it's made of cotton.

"Oh, god."

"Sam," Dean says, "I hope you know this was a long time coming." Sam can't respond, just makes his hand move to his pocket and worm it's way inside. Dean doesn't notice as his fingers curl around the salvaged object. The most important one in the world. "It's everything personal," Dean sneers. "It's not business."

"SAM!"

Sam yanks it out of his pocket, knowing he has only one shot, and twists where he lies to face Dean, ignoring the agony in his back. He lunges with both hands and brings it down on the sides of Dean's head before Dean lashes out in a vicious kick that sends Sam sliding away, but it's okay because his work is done.

Dean stares at the amulet around his neck. The one he was given all those Christmases ago.

Sam's watching desperately, fighting to keep his head off the ground as life bleeds out of him. Dean's just staring at it and Sam has to know—

Dean eyes go black—and then the darkness fades right out of them, seeming to lift off his scleras and disperse, and Sam knows, Sam knows...it worked.

"Sam! Sammy!" Sam opens his eyes (when did they close?) to see Dean above him—his brows scrunched together and eyes bright with worry that can only mean that it worked. "Hey, c'mere, let me look at you..." Dean's saying, his voice fringed with panic, his breath coming in terrified pants. "Oh, god, Sam. This is all my fault."

No, it's not. Sam wants to say, but his mouth won't work. He feels like he's sinking, drifting off into sleep...

"SAM!" The words force his eyes open. "Don't," Dean's choking on tears above him, his wonderfully green eyes wide and pleading. "Don't—" leave me "—go, Sam, please. I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry, little brother, I didn't—"

"I know," Sam croaks, feeling something final break inside him when he does. "I know. It's okay." Because it is. He wants to say more, that in the end it doesn't matter who was holding the knife. His eyes are slipping closed. Dean's screaming, something hot and salty and wet is falling onto his face. Everything slowly tapers out, though. Mercifully. The pain of his back and Dean's fingers digging into his shoulders recedes until there's nothing but warmth. Another voice calls his name. It sounds like Jess.

Sam takes his first step into the warmth and he's gone, for better or for worse.

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