The door swung open slowly, sunlight flooding in to illuminate a tired looking motel room that was no different than any other motel the brothers had stayed at over the years. The heavy burden he cradled was draped over his arms, throwing him off balance, and he moved carefully into the room. Despite his caution, he still stumbled when he passed the first bed. He steadied himself quickly, but paused for a few moments to catch his breath.

How had this happened? It didn't…it didn't make sense…

He stared blankly at the wall ahead of him, lost in his thoughts, until the "click" of the door closing pulled him out of his musings. Heaving a heavy sigh, he continued forward to the bed farthest from the wall to lay his precious burden down. Weary, exhausted, he rubbed a trembling hand across his face as he straightened and turned away.

He didn't know what to do. So much of the last few hours, the last few days, had been him reacting to his brother's disappearance. Now that it was…was over, now that his life had come to a standstill, he was lost.

Dean juggled the bag of food and the cup carrier in one hand while he twisted the key in the lock and pushed open the door to the motel room with the other. He raised his eyebrows at the sneeze Sam greeted him with, taking in the fever-bright eyes with concern. The congested coughs that came next were particularly nasty, and he couldn't help but grimace as he strode towards his brother.

"Tea," he said, passing over a cup and watching as Sam's shaking hands wrapped around it. He put his palm against Sam's forehead, frowning at the heat. "Your fever's worse," he murmured.

Sam hummed as he leaned into the touch, and Dean couldn't help but smile fondly at him. Sam had done the same thing as a child. It was comforting to realize, no matter what they'd been through and done to and for each other, certain things had not and would never change. Sam was still the little brother Dean had raised.

Dean shot out a hand to catch himself as the room spun around him, leaning heavily against the table when he stumbled forward. It was covered with messy stacks of paper, the laptop, and food he had bought and discarded as his brother's absence stole his appetite. Furious—too late, he'd been too late—Dean swept his arms across the tabletop to send the clutter crashing to the floor.

Dean sputtered, making a face at the awful coffee he'd just had the misfortune to taste. "That's…you…did you…? Sammy," he growled.

Sam looked up from the research he had spread across the table, his dimples flashing when he caught sight of Dean's grimace. "Did I what?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow in question.

Dean's glare held no heat, something that Sam had obviously not missed if his smirk was anything to go by. Dean held the mug up, mouth still twisting at the horrible coffee. "You know, salt's a rookie prank."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Dean," Sam answered, with just the right amount of confusion.

Dean wasn't buying it. "Sure you don't," he drew the words out. "Remember, you started it, Sasquatch." He pointed at his brother, lips twitching up in a grin at Sam's heartfelt laugh.

He sobbed once, a harsh, bitter noise of pain and sorrow, at the memory of Sam's laughter. He pushed away from the table, but his legs weren't steady enough to hold him, and he fell to his knees. It had been so long since Dean had heard that sound, and he'd been so proud of his brother's will to not only survive, but to live. His head drooped; his shoulders trembled. Oh God, Sammy. Sammy.

Sam walked Dean forward into the room, one arm carefully bracing Dean's chest, while the other wrapped around his back.

"It's okay," Sam said at his groan. "Easy…easy."

"I'll give you…easy, you…" He trailed off, the pain stealing his ability to come up with a clever response.

Sam smirked, but he couldn't quite hide his concern, not from Dean. He patted Dean's shoulder after lowering him to the bed, hesitating for only a moment to make sure Dean was ready before he started to check his injuries.

He didn't need to see the colorful bruises that decorated his torso to know it was bad—Sam's pinched expression said it all. "Could have been worse," he said lightly.

Sam rolled his eyes, but Dean was relieved to see the worried wrinkle on his brother's forehead smooth out. "Uh-huh. You said the same thing when you got stabbed a few years back by that demon. Three times."

"It was true then, too," Dean said, unable to hide his wince as Sam gently checked for breaks.

Sam winced with him and paused to rest his hand against the darkest bruise. The warmth from his touch slowly seeped into Dean's skin, making his pain-taut muscles finally relax—though that could simply have come from his close proximity to Sam; Dean didn't know. It took effort, as adrenaline faded and exhaustion set in, to keep his eyes open. He still tried to stay awake though, until Sam gently squeezed the back of his neck and said, "I've got this, Dean."

It was a reassurance that Sam had his back, and Dean let go with a sigh.

Sam had refused to let Dean move around the room while he was recovering without being there to watch over him. It was a level of care Sam gave freely and that Dean had missed more than he could ever say, between Sam jumping into the Cage and coming back soulless. But Sam had just smiled at him knowingly, and Dean had realized he didn't have to say anything at all.

Gone. His breath was coming in short, ragged gasps, and he fell forward onto his hands. He was gone.

It was worse this time. Worse, because Sam would never come back. There was no hope. There was no devil that needed Sam alive, no angel who would bring him back, no deal to trade Dean's soul for Sam's. God help him, he couldn't make that deal again, not even for Sammy. He'd…they'd learned their lesson; not that he would be able to find a demon interested in making that deal, anyways. Sammy…

He was gone.

Sam had disappeared on a food run, and Dean had no leads. None. They had already dispatched the ghost that had caught their attention, and Sam had gone out for dinner…two days ago. Dean had done everything he could to find a lead on another supernatural creature—scoured the local newspapers, the internet; he even put a call in to the local law enforcement.

Days later, there was nothing to show for his efforts but a trashed motel room. Sam had disappeared without a trace.

The doorknob suddenly rattled, and then the door shook, and Dean sat back on his heels as he watched someone try to break in. He was too tired to care about who it could be, too tired to even try to defend himself against this new threat. He didn't see the point, anyways. Sam was gone. If whoever or whatever was breaking in wanted to kill him now…

He just didn't feel like fighting anymore.

The door burst open, a tall form filling the frame.

"Dean!"

It sounded like Sammy, Sammy, and Dean choked on his grief.

He had finally found Sammy in the basement of the local witch, tied to an altar, bloody and limp. The witch was nowhere to be found, fled when she'd finished her final spell, and Sam… When Dean had gotten close enough to check him, Sam was gone, and Dean had felt his world end.

"Dean? What… Are you okay?"

Dean looked up at the familiar figure as it took a slow step forward, and his heart sank. He couldn't go out facing an unknown enemy; no, he had to fight a creature that had taken his brother's form. Sammy…I tried. I tried to save you.

The creature with his brother's face rushed forward as Dean's breath hitched, warily coming to a halt when Dean held up his boot knife at it. He swayed on his knees, eyes clenching shut as he fought to breathe, the knife shaking in his tremulous grip. When he heard the form shift its weight, his eyes shot open, and he steadied the weapon.

"Dean? Come on man, answer me."

Dean shook his head slowly, not in answer to the command, but in denial. It could do what it wanted with him—hurt him, kill him—but it would not look like his brother while it did so. It would not act with the caring concern that mocked him as he suffered his brother's loss.

"What are you?" Dean growled, fingers cramping from the grip he had on the knife. A quick glance showed the salt lines by the door and windows remained intact. Not a ghost or demon, then.

"Dean, it's me. What happened, man? She said…I knew she wasn't going to leave you alone, but…what…?"

The voice trailed off at Dean's humorless chuckle. "Sam's dead," he said, more to himself than to this pretender. He bowed his head and shook it again. Grief left him unconcerned over giving whatever it was ample opportunity to attack him. He took a deep breath before he lifted his chin to stare straight into oh-so-familiar hazel eyes. He bared the weapon again in a half-hearted warning. "Sam's dead," he repeated softly.

"No, Dean. I'm not. I'm right here. See?" Sam's look-a-like knelt down across from Dean, eyeing the knife and keeping its distance.

"Not him," Dean muttered. "Not him." He had carefully wrapped his brother's body in a blanket at the witch's house, had carried his lifeless form into the motel room and placed him on the bed. His brother was there, behind him; not in front of him, trying to get him to believe a lie.

He wasn't.

"Dean—"

"No," he said, shaking his head. The tears gathering in his eyes fell at the movement, but he didn't care. His brother was dead. Nausea swelled and he pressed his fist to his mouth. "I don't know who you are, but you're not him," he said when his stomach settled enough to speak. "He's…he's gone." And Dean would be, too, as soon as he cleared up this monster—or hell, maybe it was even a hallucination. He'd been through more than enough trauma to make his mind snap, after all.

The imposter's mouth twisted, its eyes darting around the room before it focused on Dean again. "Tell me what happened," it ordered.

Dean slumped into himself as he tried to sort his thoughts into some semblance of order so he could answer. His brother was dead, and he had no energy left to ignore whatever it was that was wearing Sam's form. "It was a witch. Broke into her house. Found Sammy, found you." Hallucination, he decided when it still made no move to hurt him.

"You were on the altar, not breathing, and there was… There was so much blood. Brought you back here. I'm sorry, Sammy," he breathed. He reached up to place a hand against his brother's face, but stopped just short of touching him, going so far as to pull back when it looked like the hallucination was going to touch him instead. "I should've…should've gotten there sooner. I'm so… so sorry, little brother." His voice broke, and his chin fell to rest against his chest.

"Dean, I need you to listen to me."

It was a little brother's plea, and Dean's heart twisted even as he gave a sad smile. "Anything for you, Sammy. You know that."

"I'm right here, Dean. Right here…" He broke off as Dean looked up and nodded at him.

"Don't worry, Sammy. I won't leave you alone for long."

The figure in front of him suddenly paled, throat convulsing as he swallowed hard. "Dean, God, no. You can't! Listen to me! You're right, it was a witch. But she didn't kill me; I escaped! Look!" He shook his sleeves back, holding out his arms for Dean to see.

Dean furrowed his eyebrows as he saw the bruised, swollen wrists. It was evidence of trying to escape, but it proved nothing. After all, he'd seen the same marks on the body he'd carefully carried in.

He had checked Sam for a pulse, and there hadn't been one.

"I…no," Dean said, refusing to accept the explanation that was being offered.

"Yes. I got free, we fought, and she's…she's dead. She must have cast a spell over you or something before that, though, to make you see me like that. She knew we were partners—she knew you wouldn't give up unless you had a reason to; but Dean, I'm here. I'm okay."

Dean went cold at the words, at the possibility that meant his brother could still be alive, and he fell back. Witches were sneaky and had a self-preservation streak a mile-wide. It was completely plausible this particular witch had gone to such trouble to ensure Dean stayed out of the way of her plans for Sammy.

His world felt like it had tilted off its axis. He was so lost. There was no reference point for him to go back to, no support to take strength from—not when the one person he could count on was dead and a hallucination of that same person was in front of him. "No, that's not…no." Dean shook his head yet again. Not true, it couldn't be true. He flinched away when Sam reached out to him. "You're dead. I carried your body. I did," he insisted, annoyed his hallucination was trying so hard to get him to believe what he knew was not true.

Hope was painful; false hope even more so.

"Where? Where is it, Dean?"

Dean's eyes slid shut for a moment. "On the bed. I have to finish…cleaning you up."

Sam took a deep breath before dipping his head. "I want you to look, Dean. Look at the body."

"I can't, Sammy. Not yet. Please. I just…I just need some time. And then I'll take care of you. I promise." He tried, and failed, to smile reassuringly.

Sam clenched his hands into fists and pressed his lips together. "Look. Now," he ordered.

His irritation spiking at the insistence, Dean blew out a harsh breath and turned his head to look at the bed.

At the bed that was now absent of the precious burden he had placed there not an hour before.

He spun back around, pushing to his knees. "What did you do to him?" he spat out, lifting his knife at the form he had assumed was innocent and nothing more than a hallucination. "What the hell did you do?!"

"There is no body, Dean, because I'm here! Right here!"

Dean narrowed his eyes, prepared to fire back a response, when he suddenly found the knife being pulled from his grasp. Strong arms wrapped around him before he could back out of reach, trapping him in place. He shuddered, trying to push away, to fight, trying to block out the reassurances that were quietly being spoken in his ear…when he stopped.

Because the nausea went away. Because the room stopped spinning. Because it felt like finally, finally, his world had been put right again. Because he could hear his brother's heartbeat thumping in a steady rhythm beneath his ear.

Because the dark, gloomy pall that had filled his vision had finally dissipated at his brother's touch, and he could feel the witch's spell weakening as Sam's arms tightened around him.

Because it was Sam. Not gone, not dead, but there with him.

He wasn't lost anymore.

A choked breath in and the name escaped on a sigh. "Sammy."

"I'm right here," his brother answered. "I'm right here."

AN: Hello, my dears. It's been too long since I've posted something, and I miss you all. I hope you enjoyed. :)