Hi! This is my first story under this pen name, and I hope it pleases you guys.

This is an extension of the "Heaven and Hell" episode from season 4. So, naturally, below this line, there's a shitload of spoilers. Turn back now if you don't want seasons 1-4 spoiled royally.

Thanks for clicking, and I hope you enjoy reading! Please review!

Sam had always had what one would call an 'overactive imagination'. It was part of what had made him such a good creative writer in his youth, and what allowed him to think of complex plans on the spot. When one's mind could work that hard to construct false realities and would-bes and should-bes, those things could become very real, with the right amount of effort. And, even when they didn't, they still managed to seem very real, to ache or please just as much as they would if they were legitimate happenings.

Dean had only managed a few words on his time in Hell, and yet here Sam was, creating an entire world within his brain, running through every fragment of a moment effortlessly.

They had chosen a random motel not far from where their little 'moment' had occurred, both aware of their buzzed states and not wanting to take too much of a risk. They settled down early that night, both emotionally exhausted to the extreme, and Dean was out like a light the moment he hit that pillow. Sam, however, was a different story.

It was his fault.

It was all his fault.

If he hadn't gone and gotten himself killed, Dean would have never made that deal with the crossroads demon, and he would have never gotten dragged down into Hell. Sam could still hear the screams of his brother and the sounds of ripping cloth and flesh as the Hellhounds tore him to pieces...all of that could have been avoided if he hadn't let himself die. No, he didn't blame Dean for this whole mess - originally, he had, calling him a complete nutcase for so much as considering making a deal like that, but now...now, he felt entirely different. He supposed this is how Dean felt when their father had made that similar deal.

But none of that made the feelings any less poignant within his troubled, pained heart.

Sam rolled over onto his side, nuzzling into the pillow beneath him, as if that would beckon sleep closer. He could feel that tell-tale knot forming in his throat and he didn't want to cry, no, he had already cried several times that day and he didn't need it again. Why did his brother have to care so much? He was a burden, Sam Winchester, that's all he was. 'The boy with the demon blood', Castiel had said. That was all he was now! A freak, a lunatic, a time-bomb of pure, unadulterated /evil/ that would eventually explode and take down whoever had gotten close enough.

And Dean would be the first casualty.

Couldn't he see that? Didn't he understand?

He could see it. He could just see it all. That overactive imagination of his had his thoughts running haywire. Dean strapped to one of those old-time-y racks, leather straps stretched over his bare body, mouth left uncovered so that they could hear him scream when their knives and various other tools dug deep. His wrists would chafe as he struggled, his eyes would leak tears of pain as his body grew weaker and weaker under their assault.

Sam felt his own tears running down his face. He sniffled quietly, reaching up to wipe them away with one hand. His nose felt stuffy and he turned his face fully into the pillow, biting back a sob. He couldn't wake up Dean. He refused to wake up Dean. He would just make fun of him, he wouldn't understand, he wouldn't-...

He just wouldn't.

Sam coughed quietly, trying to hush himself. He had spent many nights of his life lying awake crying, but this time just felt so much different. The youngest Winchester resisted the urge to pound his fist into the pillow, frustrated with his current state. God, he was such a crybaby. Such a burden.

His sniffles and soft whimpers were muffled by the pillow as he cried, overwhelmed by self-loathing, guilt, and fear. He wanted to be better, wanted to fix all of this, but how could he change something that literally ran through his veins? And God, would it be too much for him to act just a little less like a complete failure? He had tried everything to save Dean from Hell, to drag him out once he was there...tried everything to avenge him, to kill Lilith.

Nothing worked. He had fucked up at every turn.

He was just so useless.

A tiny sob was wrenched from him.

And just as he thought it couldn't get any worse, he heard Dean grunt quietly from behind him. His back was to Dean's bed, his own face hidden in that pillow still.

"Sammeh? Shaammeh..."

Fuck. Sam forced himself still, swallowing back whatever sobs might have still been in his throat. Goddamnit, Dean. Why couldn't you be a heavier sleeper?

"Sammy?" Dean's bed gave a creak. Sam began to tremble, a little whimper slipping from him against his own will. He knew Dean heard it, because the creaking stopped for all of two seconds before growing more intense. He'd gotten up, moved closer to Sam's bed. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, despite knowing he couldn't pretend any longer.

A hand fell onto his shoulder, trying to flip him with soft tugs. Sam struggled, but Dean only got more persistent, and eventually, he had Sam on his back. The youngest Winchester's face was reddened, flushed, his eyes pink and puffy. There were tearstains on his cheeks and he looked a general mess.

"Sammy..."

"M'fine, Dean."

"You're more of an idiot than I pegged you for if you're thinkin' I believe you," Dean said. His words were cruel, but his tone was remarkably soft. (Soft in the way that Dean could manage, of course.) He settled down on the bed, sitting upon the edge, his hand still on Sam's shoulder. "C'mon, tell me what's up."

Sam was silent, just staring up at his brother.

"Sam."

"It's nothing," Sam managed, closing his eyes. "M-...M'just a little...tired, s'all. 'Cause of today."

Dean was quiet for a while, sitting still, watching his brother lie there. Then, slowly, he curled his arms around Sam and attempted to lift him, despite the younger's mild struggles. Once he had Sam sitting up, he held him tight to him, embracing him firmly. While Dean didn't know what was making Sam so upset, he knew he had to do something to try and make this all better. He was supposed to take care of his little brother, after all. That was his job. It would forever be his job.

Without meaning to, Sam began to cry again, right into Dean's shoulder. His arms came up around his brother and he held on tight, clinging to him with all that he had. He hated himself for doing it, but he couldn't help it. He just couldn't.

"I'm sorry," Sam whimpered after a while. "I'm so sorry."

"Why're you sorry?" Dean asked, shifting his arms a little around Sam, reaffirming his grip.

"S-Sorry," Was all Sam could manage.

"Sammy, talk to me," Dean said, wanting to pull back and see his brother's face but unable to do so due to how tight Sam was holding him. "You gotta talk to me..."

"Can't," Sam choked out, sniffling. "Can't talk about it."

"Whaddya mean, you can't?" Dean was struggling to understand, desperate to figure out what was going on with Sam. "Sam, please..."

"Caaan't..." Sam pressed his face tight into Dean's shoulder, shifting as close as he possibly could. "D-Dean, I can't, m'sorry, just can't..."

Dean lapsed into silence, then sighed softly. "Sam, little bro, I don't know what's going on, but you know you can talk to me about anything."

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Dean. I messed up. I messed up so bad. I've lied to you so much. I've done so many horrible things. Why do you care so much about your runt of a brother, Dean? I'm a freak. I'm such a freak. I'm a huge freak. Everyone thinks I'm a freak. You think I'm a freak. So stop denying it, Dean.

I am and forever will be a complete and utter freak.

"I just want to sleep," Sam murmured weakly.

"But we gotta talk, Sam..."

"Please," Sam begged, holding onto Dean even tighter.

Dean swallowed. "Dude, you're even more stubborn than me sometimes." But he didn't argue further. He just eased Sam back onto the bed, tugging the covers over him. Then, unexpectedly, he crawled in next to him.

"Dean-?"

"Remember when we used to do this as kids?" Dean asked, looping an arm around Sam's waist. "You'd cry and hop into bed with me and tell me about the icky nightmare you had and tell me to make it all better." He pressed his face into the space between Sam's shoulders.

Something about Dean's casualness was both comforting and painful. However, the comforting side seemed to win out, for Sam was relaxing in his brother's hold slowly but surely.

"G'night, Sammy," Dean murmured. "Better not snore, or I'll throw you outside. Swear to God."

"Night, Dean," Sam said quietly in reply.

He hated who he was. He hated that Dean loved him. He wished he could just let himself disappear.

But damn him, he loved Dean, too. More than anything. And he couldn't bear the idea of leaving him forever.

He drifted off into a dreamless sleep, relishing in the warmth and security that was his brother's embrace.