Disclaimer: This is based on events and characters on a TV show. I don't write TV shows... Need I say more?

Author's notes: This is probably going to become a longer story, I'm not sure of the schedule yet. I may go crazy and post more today, or I might wait until I have more real free time.

Set in S2, In My Time of Dying (2x01) AU - will get more AU after the first chapter.

Reviews would be VERY appreciated! Yay feedback!

Chapter 1

Lights. Razors of glass tearing through skin. Flashing. Darkness. Then nothing, for a long time, with vague feelings of discomfort – body moving and being prodded with him only feeling it all through a string.

There was awareness of all this, first, almost at once. Then the world materialized again. Something heavy on his hand, pushing it down into some soft but unmoving surface. The mattress. His head – his forehead, thereabouts – felt heavy too, but not from something on it. It was numb. The numbness felt stranger than a headache, but it would probably turn into pain if he thought about it too much anyway.

There was something light covering him from the chest down – a sheet – he imagined it was blue on top and white on the sides, while everything else was black... brown... and white ceiling, white light to the side. The room came into focus as he blinked slowly, then faster.

And the knowledge that had been in the back of his mind, hidden somewhere, came to the forefront: I'm in the hospital. In a hospital room. I don't remember why...

He slowly sat up, wincing with his chest and ribs. They felt like they were just bruised - nothing there was wrapped or broken, but they would probably hurt like hell for a bit.

There were two brown chairs by the door. He knew that there was no one, at least no one alive, that would visit him in Stan-

Wait. He wasn't in Stanford. This was the middle of nowhere. By some crappy hotel in some not-so-quiet small town. Although the room was pretty nice for a nowhere not-important hosp-

Wait. Dean. And... and dad. John had been there. He hadn't been himself. He'd torn into Dean and Sam shot right up upon remembering that, and he himself had been at the wheel of the car, going to save Dean, and they were talking and...

There was the road and then there was a push and screech and getting crushed and...

Yellow Eyes got us after all. Sam didn't know how that thought, out of everything in his foggy mind, came up at the right time, and felt slightly more certain to him than anything else he'd thought right then, because he would not have crashed the car himself.

But then there it was, delayed, again – a wave of uncertainty about what had caused the crash. But Sam didn't want to think about it. Not the time.

Nurse. Doctor. Button. By the IV in his hand. Sam was on his own two feet, IV still in place, so no one would waste time worrying about him or fixing that before. Before he saw Dean.

He pressed the button.

"Sir, we can't let you get discharged AMA until we have..."

"Yes, you can. I'll take the meds I need." His head was much clearer, even if it was numb. They said he didn't have anything major, or that probably wouldn't clear up soon – but they wanted to 'observe' him. He wasn't wasting time waiting to be observed, or half a day on tests. Not now. He needed to see his brother. Dean. Dean who was now "in critical condition."

At least he had that one clear thought – find and see Dean – until he walked in the room and saw him. His big brother. Who could take on the world with his smart-aleck face. "No chick flicks, Sammy." Paler than the sheets around him, vessels red and burst around his eyes and the... breathing tube...

You don't deserve this. You're a healthy young man that still has half the vampires and half the clubs in the country to conquer. You can't leave me. You can't look like this. You have to be my big brother. Open your eyes. Please.

He remembered Dean with his mouth stuffed with an entire cheeseburger, so his cheeks filled like a pufferfish, Dean driving and singing along with Metallica, Dean standing by and quietly handing him a sandwich the week after they left Stanford...

And he walked out of the room, and didn't think about anything.

"Sam?"

Sam looked up, startled for a second – where am I? - and then remembered seeing the door to John's room in the hallway, and opening it.

His dad was in bed, hurt bad enough to have to stay there, with a broken leg that was tired up so much it looked painful just hanging there, but at least he didn't look d- (He didn't finish that thought.)

John asked some questions, and Sam heard himself answer robotically, but he was feeling disconnected again. Yes, I'm fine. Yes, I know about Dean. I saw him.

Then quietly, but loud enough to break through the haze.

"You should have killed it."

"No," Dean said, held against the warehouse wall, before coughing blood, dribbling down his chin.

"No," Sam said. "Don't say that."

"You know we've been chasing that thing all your life. This was our chance! And now look where your brother is. And for what? That demon is still..."

"You know what, dad? Screw you." He turned and walked out.

He called Bobby. It hadn't been a minute before Bobby was asking for the address for insurance information, as legit as they could get - "just in case." He called the people that knew where the Impala had been brought, in pieces, and then asked Bobby to find it and keep it safe. "So he can fix it."

Bobby had been quiet. Then said, "You all come on over here when you're out of there."

And then, "How you holding up?"

"I'm walking." Breathing. Handling the papers. Tired. Can't sleep. Can't find my brother.

"It's some kind of miracle... no injuries..." he heard nurses say as they came from that end of the hallway, before they passed him.

But following them was the doctor, who stopped in front of Sam, and put his hand on his shoulder.

"Your brother..."

Is sitting up in bed, eyes open and bright, blood in his cheeks where it should be, with that huge grin on his face.

"Sam, you're such a girl..."

He's not going anywhere, whatever he says. Even if that means he's a girl.

"No chick flick moments, okay? Hey, enough attention already, I'm more worried about you. I'm apparently the one with the get out of jail free card, or whatever it is.

"Something feels fishy about this... did you do something? Do you know what could have done this?"

He wanted it to be god. He wanted it to be an angel. He wanted it to be someone up there that had decided to finally cut the Winchesters a break. Or a hidden power in Dean or something. If he had to be stuck with visions of murders, it was only fitting that the fates give Dean everything good. Because that was Dean.

He wouldn't listen to any other possibilities. Wouldn't think or dream of them. He had almost been out of gas. Sat down on a bench, felt his head shut down more often. But now... there was a reason to keep going. His energy came back as fast as adrenaline.

His father wheeled over to see Dean too, alone, and Sam took the moment to swallow some meds, lean with his head back on the bench in the waiting room area, and then wonder whether these meds really did anything. Or if they were just your standard 'post-car crash' meds. Not that he was a doctor or anything.

And then he realized that for the first time since he had fully woken up, he was thinking about something other than Dean, the crash, or death. And he finally had enough energy to nod off, and take a nap that was... peaceful.

He woke up and immediately remembered: Dean's alive. A nurse was standing next to him on the left, saying his name hesitantly.

"Your father, John Winchester, wanted to see you?"

So he walked to the room, this time looking at the tiles on the floor and then the popcorn ceiling in the hallway on the way.

He came in, and John had this... look on his face, that wasn't just happiness for Dean's recovery.

"Do you know anything?" Sam said.

"Dean seems fine. I am... so relieved." John paused, as if he was going to say something else, and then shook his head, then smiled a rare, warm smile. "I'm happy beyond words that you boys are alive and well. And you don't have to worry about anything happening to him. I've looked into it."

"You have? What did you find out? What is it?"

"It's not important at this point. Trust me. And Sam, sorry, but mind grabbing me some coffee? With milk?"

"Not black?"

"That's right."

Sam carried the coffee, thinking about mending bridges, finally. He hadn't taken back those words, "screw you," yet. He would tell his father that he understood him, even if he didn't agree with him.

I didn't lose you, he wanted to say. And I don't know what you or whatever angel did, but we haven't lost Dean either. We're a family. Let's try being a family again. Please?

He had thought it all out until he saw his father facedown and still, fallen on the ground. Lost in the end. That's when Sam knew that either way, no matter what he did, he would always lose.