I let out a huff and climb into my black 1970 Chevy Camaro. It had been a piece of shit, barely able to get from place to place like I needed it to, until I'd joined up with the brothers and Dean had fixed it up for me.

Dean. He's going to be so pissed. He'll probably kill me before the hellhounds do. What do I even do? Tell him I sold my soul for his brother? I know he's done the same thing but he won't be so forgiving of my decision.

My thoughts race the entire way back to the mental hospital. About how fucked I am. About how Sam and Dean will react. About if I was wrong, if there really was some other way. And on top of it all, like a steady rhythmic hum, is the persistent thought of one month one month one month.

I pull into the parking lot and hesitate. I don't want to go in. I'm not ready to face the brothers.

But I need to see if Sam's okay.

I climb out of my car slowly, my heart pounding with a mix of worry and eagerness. I push down the feeling and walk towards the front door of the building.

I'm let into Sam's room, and I pray Dean's not there as I walk in.

He's not. A wave of relief washes over me. Thank god.

But Sam is. He's sleeping peacefully on his cot, curled up on his side. His face is still scratched and gray from days without sleep, but the exhaustion is temporarily erased from his face.

"He's asleep," I breathe to the doctor.

"Yeah. Fell asleep about half an hour ago. Guess the sedatives finally kicked in," the doctor says.

"Do you mind if I stay here?" I ask quietly, nodding to the chair in the corner of the room.

"Of course," the doctor says, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him.

I pull the chair over to the bedside and sit down, watching Sam's sleeping face. I forget, for the time being, that I'll be going to hell in a month. I forget about everything, just watching the slow rise and fall of Sam's chest.

Sam is my best friend. Dean is a close second, but Sam and I understand each other better, and it would destroy me if anything happened to him. And I love Sam a lot, but I'm not in love with him, contrary to Dean's teasing and the occasional sleeping together from time to time (I mean, come on, anybody would want to get a piece of Sam Winchester, I mean, have you seen him without a shirt on?).

I should feel guiltier about selling my soul and leaving Sam and Dean behind forever. But right now, watching Sam peacefully sleeping, I just feel overwhelming relief instead.

Dean comes in after about an hour. He has the smell of alcohol on him, so I can only guess he's been out drinking.

"He's asleep," Dean says in surprise more to himself than to me.

"Yeah," I say, glancing up at him.

"What happened?"

I shrug. "He fell asleep."

Dean finds another chair and pulls it up next to me. "You've been here since I left?" Dean asks.

"Yep," I lie. I nod at Sam. "He was sitting there in that trance-like state, looking over at where I guess he was seeing Lucifer and talking to the air every few minutes, and then he curled up and fell asleep."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

There's a few moments of silence. "It's gonna take a while for him to sleep all that off," Dean says. "That is, if there's nothing in his head to wake him up. We can probably go back to the motel."

I bite my lip, hesitant to leave Sam again. What I actually want is to spend the night, but it'll just end up being uncomfortable for me and unnecessary for Sam. He's safe here. Dean and I had filled the room with hex bags and put warding spells where we could to keep him protected from any enemies that might take the opportunity of Sam's vulnerability.

"Okay," I finally say getting to my feet and giving Sam a light kiss on the top of his head before following Dean out of the room and to the parking lot.

I'm sitting on my bed in almost complete darkness, watching a flickering TV screen show images of a missing girl, a murder, a massacre in some far-off country. I wonder if hell is going to be like what's the news channel is showing. Concentrated misery, one horrific image after the other until you can barely stand to look anymore.

Except in hell, there's no way out, and you get to take part in the action.

A single teardrop is suddenly sliding down my cheek, reaching my chin and then dripping onto the fabric of my jeans. Then another teardrop, and another, and then I can't stop them anymore.

I can't face this alone.

Barely able to see through my tears, I manage to make it out of my room and to the door next to mine. I knock softly and the door opens a few moments later.

"Eva?" Dean asks. "Eva, what's wrong?"

I try to gain control of myself for a moment, and then burst into tears again. "E-everything," I sputter. "Everything's wrong."

Dean pulls me into the circle of his arms a little awkwardly. I'm sure he's not entirely used to dealing with sobbing women.

Don't be so weak, a malicious voice in the back of my head says. Stop crying.

I thought I'd lost that persistent voice a long time ago, when Sam and Dean had patched together my weathered and beaten soul. The same soul that's going to hell, the voice reminds.

Shut up, I think back at it. Crying isn't weak. Pain is not weakness.

"Shh, it's okay," Dean says, pulling me into the room and shutting the door behind me, still holding me tightly as my tears soak into his shirt. "It's okay," he repeats, rocking slightly and pressing his lips to the top of my head.

When I finally catch my breath enough to talk, I say, "I fucked up, Dean."

He doesn't immediately refute it, insist I couldn't have messed up so badly. No, he knows that when I say I fucked up, I really fucked up. It's not hard for something like that to happen with the life we live.

He just waits for me to explain further.

I let go of Dean and sit down on the edge of his bed. He follows and sits down next to me.

I take a deep breath. I don't have to tell him the truth now. I can make something up. I don't want to travel with you and Sam anymore, I'm going my own way. Or maybe, I have terminal cancer. I'm dying in a month. Or possibly even, I feel like this is my fault. The Sam thing. That would excuse my behavior but not put the truth out there.

All these options flash through my mind in an instant, but I finally blurt out, "I have a month."

"A month till what?" Dean asks, alarmed.

"Until my soul goes to hell," I say, my voice shrinking until the last bit of my sentence is almost inaudible.

"Eva, what did you do," Dean asks, his voice inflectionless but tense. "Please tell me you didn't—"

"I couldn't just watch Sam suffer!" I exclaim, my tone defensive. "His memories of Lucifer were going to kill him, one way or another, and I needed to save him."

"You didn't need to do anything," Dean growls, anger in his voice where it had been soft and gentle only a minute before.

"It was my choice!" I almost shout. I'm getting angry too. He shouldn't be getting angry considering the things he's done to save Sam. "Is it so much to ask you to respect my decision?"

"It was a stupid decision," Dean snaps.

"Well, at least now Sam's not having a, what was it, full-blown psychotic episode, if you hadn't noticed! Unless you had a better idea of how to fix him?"

Dean opens his mouth and then closes it.

His eyes flick away from yours and he clenches his jaw. "We'll figure something out. We've dealt with hellhounds before, we can keep them away from you."

I doubt it, but it makes me feel better that Dean would be at least willing to try.

"Thanks," I grumble. There's a charged silence. "I'll see you tomorrow morning," I finally mumble quietly, pushing myself to my feet and letting myself out.

I close the door behind me and lean against it, taking a deep breath. Tomorrow I'll have to deal with Sam. But that's a whole other problem, and worrying about it right now isn't going to do any good.