AN: this is a fic I wrote today based on a prompt from Lyzzybelle, which I'll continue if people are interested. The prompt was:
"During Dean's Year in purgatory, Sam didn't stop hunting...instead he became the star of Ghostfacers!" So I thought I'd write an angsty version of that :)

Let me know what you think so far! I have a little more of it written, but not that much, so I'll do some more when I have time.

Don't say that to me. Don't you say that to me.

Sam was sweating again. He knew it even before he properly woke up: the uncomfortable feeling permeated his dreams, making him aware that, yes, they were just dreams, but the sensation was real.

Well, they weren't just dreams. None of them were. They weren't even nightmares – just memories. Just the cold reality; the cold light of day filtering through wispy curtains, into the room. They weren't evil, they were just the truth.

Sam opened his eyes reluctantly, and then wondered why he did. He didn't shut them again, just stared up at the ceiling, his eyes repetitively tracing the same patterns as they did every morning, every day, when he woke up. The grain of the wood was all too familiar now, and he hated it. He remembered a time when he was restless: up at 4a.m. and ready for the road, aching for a car journey that would twist his back and strain his knees but that he would enjoy because it wasn't really about the car, or the road, or even the hunt, it was about –

He blinked the thoughts away, the tiny movement enough to send them away; to shake them off. It was getting easier. But it was still too hard.

Then he heard it: the sound that had awoken him.

Three thuds at the door.

He felt all of his muscles tense with practised readiness for a brawl. He felt none of the urge to survive, to get out of bed and see what it was, that his body apparently had in spades. But if he didn't go, he'd be on edge. And besides, what if it was –

It wasn't. He knew that much. But no one knew where he was; what he was doing. No one knew he didn't get out of bed most days, and that he slept fourteen hours a night, exercised, ate twice, and went to bed again. No one knew that he was on autopilot. No one knew that he was lost. That's because he didn't know anyone – not anymore. They were all gone. Everyone who knew or cared whether he lived or died was gone, and it'd been that way for a month now . . . Maybe two.

So who was at the door?

He pulled a shirt on, not bothering to change into jeans from his sweatpants, and grabbed his sawn-off and holy water flask from under his bed. He padded as lightly as he could to the door, which wasn't easy, because the cabin's wood floor had seen a lot of action in its time, and was prone to complaining about it at the best of times. Right now was not the best of times, obviously.

"Sam Winchester?" Called a man from the other side of the door. Sam didn't think he recognised the voice, and frowned. Maybe he wasn't as alone in the world as he'd been thinking . . . Or maybe a demon was about to finally get to him, after years and years of caution, in a cabin in the back-woods of Whitefish, Montana. He sighed to himself, thinking that the voice sounded a little too nasal to belong to a demon's usual choice of host – big, manly, strong, rather than weedy and small. Which is what he was expecting, from how the man spoke.

Pressing the barrel of the gun to the door, Sam turned the handle to the door, and was transported back to all those years ago: letting Ruby into his makeshift home, shotgun pressed to the door, equally annoyed as he was now. He'd been alone then, too. He'd made a very bad mistake. But he had an excuse – the big excuse, the big hole in his life, where there used to be –

"Uh . . . Sam?"

Sam squinted into the warm sunlight that poured into the dark cabin, physically recoiling, and throwing his free hand up to his face to shade it. It was then he realised what he must look like – basically in his pyjamas, with a face full of scruff.

"Yeah, who-" He looked down at the caller – actually, four callers – three men, and one woman – they looked vaguely familiar. He tried to recall some names, and then cursed inwardly. "Oh, c'mon, not you guys-" He pleaded with some cruel deity.
"Yeah!" The guy he reckoned was the leader said, almost enthusiastically annoying.
"How'd you even find me?" Sam asked with a big sigh, and realised that his voice was a little gravelly with disuse. He mustn't have spoken in weeks, he reckoned.
"Seriously?" The second man asked, raising and eyebrow and sounding a little unsure. "Garth, obviously,"

"Gar-" Sam got half-way through the name, and then scrubbed a hand down his face. He literally couldn't believe his luck. These idiots knew Garth. And he'd sent them here. Just, perfect.
"So, um – gonna invite us in?" Asked the woman, looking into the cabin, trying to peak around the corner and have a quick nosy look around. That was when Sam realised he was being filmed.
"Hey, get that – get those out of my face," He huffed, and both the last man and the woman exchanged sheepish looks.
"Sorry," The man with the camera said, lowering it slightly, but not putting it away. "We thought you'd look more . . . Impressive," Sam rolled his eyes.
"Why are you even here, uh . . ." Sam struggled to remember the name of the leader – the ginger one, it was something like . . .

"Ed," He supplied, and cleared his throat, "We'd like to invite you to become the newest member of the Ghostfacers!" He said proudly.

Sam looked from him, to his three friends, wondering if this was a joke. It clearly wasn't, if their expectant faces were anything to go by. He huffed out a small laugh – but, no, it still wasn't any more of a joke than it was five seconds ago.

"You can't be serious,"
"Deadly!" The other guy – Sam remembered now, they'd met in West Texas when he'd just left Stanford a few years back – Harry. "Or, at least – an honorary member, technically," He said with a stupid business-like face.
"It doesn't matter," The girl butted in – Sam thought her name was Maggie – with a roll of her eyes, "The thing is, we need your help. It's this case. We don't know what to make of it, and we could use an extra set of hands,"

Sam shut the door half way, and pressed his forehead against it, taking a calming breath and shutting his eyes for a moment. These idiots were trying to get themselves killed. Again. Just like at the house with that ghost that made him go to the corpse-birthday-party. Just another day in the life of Sam fucking Winchester.

And now he was stuck with everyone's least-favourite ghost hunters. Unbelievable.