A/N: I haven't posted anything in a good long while, so just so's you know I ain't dead, here's a little plotless H/C AU for Swan Song. I like my Winchesters to come back from Hell broken and bloody and a little traumatized, not just sorta there the way our Sam came back, so I wrote a different way it could have ended. Could maybe add to it if any interest, but otherwise it's just a quickie to let y'all know I'm still alive and kicking!

…

No, Dean, don't! You sonofabitch, haven't you died for me enough? Leave me!

"Sam! Sam!" Dean's voice was commanding, but cracked with worry. His brother lay naked and broken in his arms, and until a few seconds ago, wasn't moving. Not that what he was doing now constituted as moving, anyway. He was just tense, trying to move but completely unable to, from pain, weakness, or fear. Rather, and.

But he was here now. Dean was here. Sam had to know that, he had to feel safe now, because Dean never let anything happen to him. It was okay now. Well, as okay as it was ever going to be, after what they'd been through.

"Sammy? Sammy, it's okay, man, I gotcha. You with me? You here with me, Sammy?" But Sam only flinched away as Dean tried to smooth bloody, sticky hair back from his face, whining like a frightened child. "Sam, I'm right here. I got you now, you hear? Sam?" His voice was involuntarily going Winchester-marine, the voice Sam hated at the best of times, and Sam attempted to curl away from him, tears streaming silently down his face.

With an effort, Dean controlled his tone, suddenly gentle, speaking to Sam the baby: "Sammy, it's me, Sammy. It's Dean, yeah? 'Member me? I'm here. I got you, Sammy."

"You can't, Dean." Sam was bawling openly, deliriously, weakly pushing against his brother.

Okay, at least that answered the question of whether Sam knew who he was with or not.

"Sam, don't worry, I got you. I'm taking care of you now, you're safe, bro."

But this hardly helped Dean determine with any certainty what was wrong with his brother. Well, yeah, okay, hell was wrong with his brother, and that wasn't something you just got over, but still. Why was Sam still fighting? He was out now. He was safe. Didn't he know that? Didn't he know Dean had his back now, and would die to make it all right?

"Please, Dean, don't do this…" Sam choked. "You can't, please."

"Don't do what? Sam, you—"

Then Dean stopped. Like a switch flipped in his brain, he was back on Sam's wavelength: Sam wasn't thinking about himself. That great brain of his was well into overdrive trying to figure out how Dean could have gotten him out of Satan's clutches without drastic measures. Not that his second-hand soul would have done anything, but there were other ways, more desperate ones. Sam was thinking about Dean, worried for him.

Now Dean knew what to say. "Oh, no, no, no. Hey. Hey now, Sammy, don't worry, man. We're both okay, yeah? I swear to you, I'm here. I'm gonna be right here when you wake up, Sammy, safe and sound. We are both okay, you understand me?"

The sobs were subsiding, and Dean took this as encouragement. He heaved Sam's shuddering form up against his chest and carded his hand through his hair. Sam's breaths were shaky, but at least he seemed to be trying not to cry anymore. He was still twitching, too, but background, as if he was trying to relax and his body was just responding slowly to the order. Dean knew, more than anyone, that the only thing worse than hell itself was knowing your brother was going to go there. In the scheme of things, Dean thought Sam was handling this pretty well.

"Yeah, Sammy, right here. Not gonna let you go," Dean continued his firm assurance. "Be right here when you wake up, Sammy."

"P-promise?" Sam's voice was so weak it wouldn't have withstood a stiff breeze. But it held everything in that one word, every ounce of strength and coherence he had left gathered into it. Everything hinging on the answer.

"Yeah, dude. I promise. Now you wanna try to relax for me? I got you, okay? You just gotta try and rest for me."

Sam nodded faintly and coughed. Tears had carved white streaks through his blood-and-dirt smeared face, but he was stilling.

"Okay, well let's get you on the bed, yeah? Comfier there."

Sam did not object to being so manhandled, but his body, wracked with pain, certainly did. Sam actually cried out in agony as Dean lifted him, as Dean hadn't heard him do since he was a kid, which promptly dissolved into coughing and more tears.

"Shit, Sammy, I'm sorry, man. Easy, easy, breathe through it," Dean coached once he'd gotten Sam to the bed.

"D-Dean," Sam finally managed, when he could breathe. A twitching finger managed to close around some sort of fabric which his desperate brain connected to his brother, a lifeline. "C-can't…"

Can't believe you're here.

Can't see.

Can't feel anything.

Can't move.

Can't breathe.

Can't think…

Sam's breathing was ragged, becoming frantic. Like a good Winchester, "quit" wasn't in his vocabulary, and even after such an ordeal he wasn't about to let himself go down until he was sure it was safe. And being unable to—can't—do anything for himself, well, that wasn't safe by any definition. Dean pulled him closer to his chest, touching his face with his hand, trying to bring him around, to connect him with reality. "Sammy. Sam. It's all right, man, you don't need to worry about it. I'm taking care of everything. You don't need to do anything, man, just rest. Just rest easy, I'm looking after you, okay? You hear me?"

Sam managed a nod, squinting in pain. "D-dee'," he moaned miserably.

"I know it hurts, Sammy, just try to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up, okay?"

"'Kay." It was less than a whisper, but Dean was near enough to hear it. And then Sam quit, allowing Dean to take over. Because he could.