A/N: I promised KKBELVIS (who is awesome and amazing) that I'd write a 5.13 tag. Well, I did that, but I also mashed it up with a 5.14 tag because episode 14 was just so awesome and heartbreaking, and I couldn't leave it alone.

Warnings: Spoilers for 5.13/5.14, language, blood, angst and total bro moments.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or anything associated with it. Title is borrowed from Anberlin's 'Dismantle. Repair.'

Dismantle (Repair)

There's too much blood on the ground for Sammy to still be alive. Jesus Christ, there's a pipe in Sam's stomach and there's just too much blood.

Tears burn Dean's eyes like fire as Uriel's hand tightens around his throat, cutting off words, cutting off air, and stealing away any last moments he could have with his brother. He can't get him off. Panic and grief are stealing energy away from his damaged body, and all he can do is stare at all the blood that's coming from Sam's belly. Michael shows up just as his vision starts to tunnel and his chest starts to stutter.

Dean barely waits for his lungs to start working correctly before he points to his fallen sibling, "Fix him."

The smile Michael gives him makes Dean want to punch the holy hell out of his face but he doesn't, because it would hurt, and he needs the bastard to bring Sam back.

But that doesn't stop him from glancing at Sam every other second all through Michael's monologue. He really doesn't give a damn about pre-ordained destiny or archaic angel bloodlines; he seriously couldn't care if he tried. Right now all he cares about, all he can see, is Sam lying in his own blood with his hands still around the pipe. Dean swallows to keep his stomach acid from crawling up his throat.

Michael looks at him, practically stares through him, and Dean has to keep himself from crying. Silently he begs Michael to make good on his promise. He listened to his speech about a million different pieces of fate and random acts, and now he just wants him to bring Sam back.

When Michael finally touches Sam, making him disappear and leaving only the pipe and blood behind, Dean thinks he might as well call it an act of mercy for all the relief it brings him.

Warily, he watches Michael bring his hand up to do the same to him, the whole time promising himself that he'll find a way to kill the archangel if Sam isn't in absolutely perfect condition when he gets back.

Flash.

Dean isn't sure what to expect when he gets back to the motel room but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't terrified to find out. He crash lands on the motel floor and the ugly carpet burns his palms. He stays like that for a moment, just trying to get himself together, before he forces himself to look around for Sam. He doesn't have to look far.

Sam's sitting on the edge of one of the beds, hunched over, and staring at the huge blood stain on his shirt. Dean swallows hard as panic hits him full force and he scrambles over to his brother.

"Sam?" Dean asks urgently as he kneels in front of Sam, who doesn't respond.

Dean's hands ghost over Sam's body, unsure of where to touch, or what he should do. He finally settles on grabbing a hold of Sam's shaking wrists to help ground his frantic emotions, and to simultaneously check Sam's pulse. Sam's heart is racing under Dean's palms and his skin is warm, but not hot. He lets out a small breath as he feels the reassurances of Sam's pulse, the reassurance that Sam's alive. He lets go and swallows as he pushes Sam's arms out of the way, so he that can see his stomach. There's a jagged hole in his shirt and the bottom half is completely soaked through with blood, like it was dipped in crimson syrup.

"Jesus, Sam," Dean breathes. His throat clogs up as he stares at the evidence of Sam's fatal injury. It hits him that he'd lost his little brother for a second time. For a few minutes, Sam had really been gone.

Dean swallows and slowly hefts up Sam's shirt up, and stares at the unblemished skin of Sam's abs. No wound, no scar, nothing but tan flesh.

Dean drops his head, his forearms resting on Sam's knees, as he finally lets relief flood him like a drug. Damn it, things had been too close this time, way too close.

When Dean finally looks up again, Sam's watching him, his eyes wide and glossy, skin too pale.

"What's wrong?"

Sam's eyes follow him but he still doesn't say anything. The lack of response makes Dean's previous relief fade into panic again.

"Come on, Sam, you're scarin' me. Say something!" Dean demands as he brings his hands up to grip Sam's arms, giving his brother a slight shake.

"I saw hell."

If it weren't for the words, Dean never would've heard Sam's soft voice. But Dean always hears the word 'hell,' no matter how softly it's spoken.

"What?" Dean asks, the word breaking as denial worms its way into his brain.

"It was…" Sam breaks off and his bottom lip trembles, "Dark and red…and…"

Dean stares at him in horror. Not this. Anything but this. The last thing Dean ever wanted was for Sam to experience hell; he'd rather go back himself.

"Dean, m'gonna be sick," Sam gasps, already pushing himself past Dean as he stumbles to the bathroom.

Dean follows him, his heart and thoughts racing, as he pushes the bathroom door out of the way. He kneels down behind Sam and puts his hand firmly on his back, feeling him shake and lurch with sickness. Dean closes his eyes, wishing like hell that he'd never met an angel and that everything was different, better. When he opens his eyes again, Sam has stopped vomiting and is resting his head against his arm, which is propped up on the toilet seat. Dean falls into big brother mode, his thoughts on nothing but helping Sam, and making everything better.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean says softly as he pulls Sam's trembling body away from the toilet so that he can flush it.

He leans Sam against the bathtub and then grabs a stray washcloth from the sink. He runs the cloth under some warm water, rings it out, and then squats in front of Sam.

Dean looks at him, silently asking permission to take care of him. Normally he wouldn't give a damn if Sam wanted the help or not, he'd just do it. But Sam's on this (not so) new independence kick and hasn't been as accepting of help lately, or as he calls it, "babying." Mentally he pleads with Sam to let him do this, to let him take care of him so that he doesn't feel so useless.

Sam's eyes are filled with tears and guilt and pain, but under that is the younger brother that he's kept hidden for the past year and a half. Dean takes that as permission and starts to wipe away the blood that's still on Sam's mouth and chin. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to do to make it better. He feels as useless and as powerless as when Uriel was suffocating him, and Sam was across the room, dying.

Dean's eyes blur at the memory but he refuses to lose it in front of Sam, not while Sam's so close to losing it himself. Suddenly Sam's hand comes up and closes around Dean's wrist. Dean pauses his actions and looks at him, waiting for an explanation.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers and then his face crumbles as tears take over, "I'm so sorry."

Dean blinks in surprise for a second before his instincts kick in, and he tugs Sam to him. Sam's forehead rests on Dean's shoulder as Dean's arm holds him close, "You've got nothing to be sorry for, Sam, ok? Nothing."

"I sent you there, you went because of me. God, Dean it was…," Sam trails off as he clenches his hands in Dean's shirt, twisting and holding on like a lifeline. Dean understands. It's hell and there really aren't any words to adequately describe it.

Dean drops the washcloth and hauls Sam in for a full-on hug, screwing his usual rules of 'no chick flick moments' and physical contact, because they both need this right now.

He should have known that Sam's brain would've skipped over being concerned about itself, and gone straight into feeling guilty about the time that Dean had spent in hell. That's how Sam works and Dean should have seen it coming.

Dean rests his cheek on top of Sam's head, "Nothing to feel sorry about, Sammy, I sent myself there, remember? Nothing you could've done about it. It's ok."

Sam shakes his head but doesn't say anything, and Dean doesn't know if he should be thankful for that or worried.

After a few minutes, he slowly releases Sam and eases him back against the tub, "Need to finish cleaning you up. You hurt anywhere?"

Sam's eyes look vacant as he shakes his head 'no.' Dean swallows and nods before he picks up the abandoned washcloth to clean the dried blood off of Sam's hands.

"Scared the shit out of me, Sammy," Dean says softly as he works on removing the red from Sam's skin, "Damn angels. God, if you had…I don't know what I would've done."

"She was right to try to kill me. Castiel lied when he said that she wasn't."

"No, she wasn't right," Dean states with conviction and a stern face, "You dying is never alright, we'll find another way."

The discussion ends there because they've had different variations of this argument ever since they found out about Yellow Eyes, and it always ends with them on different ends of the spectrum.

Silence follows. Dean concentrates on getting the blood off of Sam's nails and Sam concentrates on the top of Dean's head. A few times Dean's opened his mouth to say something or ask a question, but he can't force out the words. It took him months to even say the word 'hell' and now here he is, wanting to interrogate Sam about how much he saw, what he saw, what they did to him…

God, he was going to be sick.

"Dean, you ok?"

Dean looks up, realizing that he had stopped cleaning Sam's hands and was just staring at them, frozen in his actions.

"Did they hurt you?" Dean asks, demands, because he needs to know. Of all the other shit that's in hell, he just needs to know if they touched his little brother. He knows it isn't likely because Sam couldn't have been there long, but the chance was always there.

Sam's breath catches in his chest when he inhales and for one heart-stopping second, Dean thinks Sam's going to confirm his worst fear.

"No."

Dean lets out a laugh that could almost sound like a sob, "Good. That's good."

"It was just…flashes, mostly, and the sound…there was so much screaming. I don't even think that I was fully there yet, wasn't dead long enough," Sam continues softly.

Dean nods and tosses the now red washcloth in the sink.

"You ready to get up?" Dean asks, searching Sam's face.

"Yeah."

Dean grabs one of Sam's arms and helps haul him upright, and then puts a steadying arm around his shoulders once he's standing. Slowly, they make their way back to the main room and to the bed that Sam abandoned earlier. Sam eases on to the bed and lays down, curling up like he used to when he was younger.

"Move over," Dean mutters and taps on Sam's back.

Without a word Sam shuffles over, making room for his older brother. Dean sits up in the bed, leaning back against the headboard. Sam moves over until his back is pressed against Dean's side.

"You don't have to stay with me," Sam comments softly.

Dean drops his hand on to Sam's shoulder and squeezes, his way of silently telling Sam that he knows, but he wants to, might even need to. They'll both be having nightmares tonight, Dean of Sam falling to the ground and into his own blood, and Sam of red flashes and agonized screams. They'll need to have each other's backs.

"You think Cas will make it back ok?" Sam asks, his voice already slurred with sleep.

"I hope so," Dean answers softly.

Sam makes a sound of agreement and shifts, pressing closer to Dean.

"Go to sleep, I'm not going anywhere."

As Sam drifts off, Dean renews his vow to protect Sam at all costs, because today was too close and he can't lose his brother, he can't let him go to hell. He would rather die first.