Hi, this is my first ever Supernatural story and my first time writing a story for anything other than anime and I'm honestly a nervous wreck! This idea had stuck in my head for quite some time and I had to get it out. I typed it in three hours and it's unbeta-ed so please forgive any terrible mistakes...There's no Wincest here(as much as I love it) but I hope you'll like it anyways. Enjoy! :)

It'll Be Alright

The first day Dean is brought back, it is exactly 1 minute past midnight. Sam is hunched over a desk spilled with research and papers he's been doing for…days? Weeks? He doesn't remember, doesn't even care. There are bags under his eyes and his cheeks look sunken. Sam's mind is gone and his body is just a machine which he uses to find ways to save his brother. His brother who's now in Hell.

His eyelids are drooping, body about to give in to five days without sleep and only caffeine when suddenly—

"THUMP."

The sound startles him awake. His hunter instincts fly in and he whips out his gun and aims it behind him.

"Who's there?!" He barks.

An empty bedroom, with two-day old Chinese takeout replies him.

There is a moment of confusion as he looks everywhere, and then he notices it:

-A pair of muddy boots peeking out from the small space between the wall and the bed.

His blood freezes. He knows the boots…but no. It can't be. He approaches it warily, gun tight and ready in his hand. As he goes closer the dirt-caked boots are followed by a pair of tattered jeans and then…

Sam forgets to breathe.

Oh, God.

The gun falls to the floor with a clatter and he slowly sinks onto the floor.

"Dean…?"

He stares at the familiar face. It's decorated with cuts and ugly gashes but clearly the face of his older brother.

His eyes trail to the shredded shirt covering his brother's torso. It's soaked with blood, and he can see numerous carvings, cuts or bruises decorating almost every inch of his brother's frighteningly alabaster skin.

Distractedly, he remembers the times where Dean had joked about Sam's tanner skin.

"How come you go hunting less and you're the one who gets the tanned skin, you dweep?" Dean scoffs.

"You're just jealous." Sam shoots back.

Not like this. Not like this.

Bile rises in his throat.

He swallows it back down, forces himself to come back to the rational world.

He checks for a pulse and breathes a sigh of relief when it's there. It's thready and uneven, but there.

He tends to the wound, trying not to wince when he peels off the clothes. He stitches, bandages, disinfects—it's hard to sew up the carvings when his hands are trembling so bad. There are no broken bones, thank god. He seriously contemplates bringing his brother to the hospital this time, but it's too risky. What can he say?

Oh, sorry. My brother just got out of Hell so he isn't in a good shape well. And he's probably mentally traumatised so you might want to be careful too.

By the time he's done, he's changed the basin of water four times and the towel's soaked crimson. For years to come, Sam would detest the colour red.

After he's done, he tucks his unconscious brother gently into bed, pulling up the covers. He sits by him, bows his head and for the first time in a long while, prays.

Please God, let him live.

The second day passes without any movement from Dean. He's so still that Sam has to constantly check on him to make sure he's not actually dead. His skin matches the white sheets. His face is impassive, dull golden eyelashes resting heavily against sunken cheeks. He looks like a corpse. A deep cut that Sam stitched the night before runs from his forehead across his face down to his cheek. Sam takes the limp, bony hand and prays and prays again.

On the third day, Dean wakes up screaming. The sound is piercing and gut-wrenching, like someone being tortured and it's a sound that Sam will never forget the rest of his life, a sound that will give him nightmares for many nights. He has to practically wrestle the withering body out of the motel, away from astonished (and annoyed) motel staff, and into a car. He drives, one hand trying to hold a thrashing Dean down and the other steering the wheel, to a desolate roadway in the middle of the night.

Dean is still at it, hands clamped at his ears and eyes wild and unseeing.

"Dean, it's okay! IT'S OKAY! You're not in Hell anymore!" Sam tries to calm his agitated brother.

Dean doesn't even seem to register him speaking. He continues screaming, that awful tortured noise filling the car.

It lasts for five hours, five full hours until he literally faints from exhaustion, eyes rolling up and body collapsing forward into Sam's arms. Sam hugs the limp body tight, burying his face into the blonde hair, and cries.

The fourth day Dean is silent. It's no shock if his vocal cords are ruined now. Sam's found another motel and he hopes they won't be chased out again. Dean's scaring him. He's not screaming or thrashing about anymore, just huddling in the corner of the room and staring wide-eyed at nothing. He doesn't move a muscle, like he's been frozen in time. Sam attempts to approach him, but even a single step near and he sees the body tense up, like a very tightly coiled whip that'll lash out if touched. He watches him from a distance instead. Eventually Dean falls asleep, head drooping down to his knees. Sam carefully carries him back to bed (it's frightening how he can lift him in ease) and pulls up the duvet. He gazes at his brother's face, cut and bruised, and even in sleep his expression pained, and feels white hot rage flooding his veins.

How dare they do this to him.

He's not even spared in sleep. His body jerk and he whimpers, as though he's still being tortured in his dreams.

The next few days are the same. Dean curled at the corner unresponsive, Sam trying to get through to him again and again and failing each time. He won't even eat unless Sam places the food on the bed and leaves. When he gets back the takeout box will be shredded, the plastic utensils will be untouched and chow Mein noodles will be splattered on his face or dangling from his fingers.

He's forgotten how to eat.

One day, and urgent mission forces him away. It's a desperate life-or-death plea from a friend, a favour he owes with his life and he can't reject it. Before he leaves, he makes sure all sharp or dangerous objects are kept and the door is locked and that Dean's okay.

"I'll be back soon, Dean." He promises.

No reply.

Sam returns quickly a few hours later, anxious and worried. Thankfully, the place is not destroyed and Dean is still at where he is.

"That doesn't look very comfortable there does it?" Sam comments. He has two paper bags of takeaway (healthy and nourishing, for Dean) in his hands.

As usual, Dean doesn't respond.

"Let's get you up from here, okay?" He says. He tries to ignore the wary green eyes following his every move, and when Sam's arm touches his sleeve, he jerks away like he's been electrocuted. He backs away into the wall, mumbling something frantically under his lips. Sam's heart rises for a split second at the prospect of his brother speaking but it's crushed when he realises they're Latin incantations.

Sam swallows. "Dean, I'm not a demon. It's me, Sam," Tears well up in his eyes. "It's your brother."

"Don't touch me, don't touch me, don't touch me, don't touch me…" The words are repeated under his breath like a protective mantra.

Sam's vision blurs with more tears and he chokes out a "It's okay Dean. I'll be here. I'll always be here till you're okay again."

I'll never leave you.

He puts the paper bag on the floor and escapes back into the cold comfort of research before sadness can break him down again.

From the corner of his eye, he sees his brother tear open the bag and scuff down his food like an animal, not caring how the food smears his face. This time Sam doesn't ignore it. This time, he brings a napkin over to him and shows him how to do it.

Maybe…just…maybe…?

"Here, you wipe it off like this," Sam demonstrates. His voice is calm but instead he's flipping out, hoping Dean will listen. "There's some on your hands too."

Dean's looking at him with furrowed brows (a new expression at least, other than the eerie blank one), like Sam's insane. He probably is.

But Sam doesn't give up, doesn't care how stupid he's looking. He repeats the demonstration again and again, slowly, patiently, prompting Dean to try it.

Eventually, Dean snatches the napkin from his hands and copies his exact movements, wiping his mouth and hands slowly while eyeing him. It's more of smearing his hands with the napkin rather than wiping it, but Sam is ecstatic he's responded.

"That's good Dean," his voice is filled with encouragement and happiness. "That's really good."

Dean returns back to his shell and the moment is gone. Sam tries not to feel disappointed, telling himself that it's better than nothing. He wants to see that smirk again, the teasing and banter that makes his brother…him. Not this broken, hallowed shadow of a man.

But it's a start, and Sam can only dare hope for more.

A/N: I'll try to make the chapters longer and I hoped I haven't disappointed you. I'm not the best of writers and it feels really different writing stories that aren't anime-related but I'll try my best. Oh, and please, please, please review with fingers crossed! I love reviews because they always make my day and really, even a simple one would make me grin like an idiot. (: