A/N: Sorry for the hiatus guys, had a bit of writers block! Didn't want things to drag out, or keep Sammy in a coma for the sake of it, and I didn't want to post crap for the sake of having something up. But now I finally have an idea where I'm going with the rest of the story! Thanks so much for the patience and for reading and/or reviewing and PMing. It really makes my day! DISCLAIMER: I do not own Supernatural, or any of its characters. For entertainment purposes only.

Chapter 10

September 18, 2004

San Francisco, California

"What the fuck were you thinking, Dean?"

Dean closes his eyes, bracing himself for his father's latest explosive outburst. He knows his dad, knows that it is absolutely necessary that he endure this latest "motivational speech", and most of the time, he can deal. Yeah, Dad is pissed. Yeah, he's gonna tear me a new one. But usually, after John cools down a bit, everything's cool. Well, for Winchester standards. John calms down, Dean acknowledges that he screwed up, and life goes on. Hell, Dean has gone through the routine so many times that it seems like old hat now. Now Sammy, well, that had been different. John's youngest had always had a sensitive side to him, had always tried to butt heads with his father, even if Sam was in the wrong. Those two were like two peas in a pod, which was what made them clash so badly in the first place. Both were stubborn as hell, both would refuse to listen to the other, and both would leave at the end of the day hurt and angry. On many occasions, both would regret their harsh words, but end up being too chicken shit to apologize to the other. Dean couldn't remember how many times in his relatively short life how many times he had had to be mediator between the two.

But Dean, he was different. Having idolized (and even emulated) his father since he was a pre-schooler, the eldest Winchester was always following orders. It was always "yessir," "nosir", "I'll get right on it, sir". Very rarely did Dean question his father's orders, or even consider refusing. He had taken a lot of shit from his father, and had developed quite a thick skin. After all, John was an ex-marine, it was no wonder he acted like a drill sergeant most of the time. Besides, his overly strict, no nonsense personality had made both he and Sam excellent hunters.

But now Dean could hardly endure his father's latest rant. He sat on the edge of the bed in the crappy motel room, wishing for all his heart that his father would just shut the fuck up for once.

"I told you about that vamp nest, about how Sammy was the intended target, and you still go to Stanford to see him? You could've gotten the both of you killed! What were you thinking!?"

"You told me that day that the nest was cleared out," Dean responded weakly, the usual fire in his voice down to coals. "I figured it was safe to check up on him."

"You figured!? You never assume! That's one of the first rules of hunting! You never just assume that the thing you're hunting is dead. Goddamn it Dean, you know that!"

Dean sighed. Yes, he did know that. Assuming is what could get you killed. He looked back on one of his first hunts, as a young teenager, no more than fourteen or fifteen. It had been a simple salt and burn, an easy case for John and perfect for him to teach his son the ropes. Dean had assumed that the ghost would vanish permanently when shot with rock salt, leaving him free tow start digging the spirit's grave in peace. Unfortunately, the spectre had materialized a lot sooner than the teenager had planned, and had attacked the boy in mid-dig. Luckily, John had been around to dispel the spirit and finish the job, but not before the bitch had seriously wounded the boy, to the point that at one moment John had thought he would have to take Dean to the hospital. Once he was fully recovered, John had really gone after him. Never assume anything.

And now, though it was true that John had vanquished the vampires for good, it had disappointed him that his son, his flesh and blood, the one he had trained to be one of the best hunters on the planet, had made a rookie mistake which could have easily cost either his or Sam's life. And Dean knew it, too. John could tell by the way his firstborn could barely look him in the eye; the way his shoulder's slumped as he sat, the nervous fidgeting of the wool blanket. Oh yeah, Dean knew. And that was made him even angrier. He knew what danger he could have been putting the both of them in, and he took that risk anyway.

"What's the number one rule, Dean?" In a voice soft and calm, which had scared Dean a hell of a lot more than the outburst from earlier. Slowly, Dean looked up, looking his father in the eye and trying not to act as upset as he really was. "Look out for Sam."

The voice was barely audible.

"What was that?"

"Look out for Sam." This time, in a stronger voice, and Dean felt another surge of guilt washing over him. That was his one job, and he could have very easily messed up. Another childhood memory flashed before him, this time the case with the Shtriga which had nearly claimed Sam's life. Dean had been bored, had defied a direct order to play a few stupid arcade games, only to come back and find that horrible creature inches from his brother's face, ready to suck the life from him. Dean had his gun in hand, ready to fire…

And he had hesitated. If John had not come home at just that moment, Sammy would have been dead. And it would have been Dean's fault.

Look out for Sammy…

Xxx

Russellville, Arkansas

Present Day

Look out for Sammy…

Dean sighed, shifting uncomfortably in the crappy recliner the hospital had provided for loved ones who wanted to keep vigil on the ailing. He winced as a sharp pain ran along his upper back, and Dean massaged it, trying to ease the discomfort from sitting in the same position for hours on end. Beside him, there was no change in Sam's condition. He had been comatose for almost a week now, with little, if any, signs of improvement, or hints that he was on the brink of regaining consciousness. Dean had tried to remain hopeful, and had even prayed to Cas (though he knew that he would be wasting his breath, considering the fact that his celestial ally was most certainly dead, or if not, definitely MIA), but as the hours had passed with no change in his condition, Dean had finally given up. Bobby was gone, so he couldn't even confide in his surrogate father with a phone call, to hear any forms of reassurance or false hope, other than the forced smiles of hospital personnel, who tried to reassure him that Sam could come around.

"Look out for Sammy. Some job I did on that." And for what seemed like the hundredth time since this whole shit storm had begun, Dean cursed himself for not having gone after Walt and Roy earlier. He had vowed that he would, that he would drop everything once he came back and gone after the assholes with guns blazing. They had killed his brother. No matter if Joshua had brought them back within 24 hours or so, those pricks had gone into that motel room with the intention of killing his baby brother. And nobody messes with Sammy. Not on Dean Winchester's watch!

But they had. He had forgotten about those sunsofbitches in the clusterfuck that was the apocalypse and Team Free Will. Sure, Sam had forgotten too, as had Bobby, and even Cas. But Dean, he should have never forgotten. It was his damn job to look after his little brother, to protect him at all costs. Even when John had hinted that Dean may have to kill him, the elder Winchester had denied it, and had done everything in his power to prevent that, even if it meant letting his brother drink demon blood, allowing his addiction to spiral out of control. Hell, it would have been protecting the kid to kill him, to end his life quietly and painlessly. But he couldn't. God help him, he couldn't.

"Fuck, Sam. I'm so sorry." Dean looked down at his brother's sleeping form, listened to the steady rise and fall of his chest (albeit aided with the help of the ventilator nearby, reminding him of his brother's dire condition). If not for the maze of tubes and machines surrounding the kid, and the pallor of his face, it would seem that Sam was sleeping, caught in (mercifully) what seemed like a peaceful dream. Dean gently ran a hand through Sam's damp hair, fully aware of the impending chick flick moment and not caring in the least.

"Sam, this is all my fault. If I'd killed those sonsofbitches when I had the chance, none of this would have happened. I'd promised you I'd go after them, and did shit all. It's my job to protect you. Always has been. Well, look how good that turned out, huh?" A weak chuckle, soon drowned out by the choke in his voice as Dean struggled to regain his composure. For a moment, he could have sworn he heard his brother's voice murmur, something around the lines of "it's not your fault", but after pausing and hearing nothing but the drone of the heart monitor and hiss of the respirator, gave up, assuming that the voice was only in his imagination.

"And I don't just mean this," he continued, gesturing around the room with a free hand. "We've been in our share of hospitals before. Hell, five years or so ago I was in your boat. I mean everything. If I hadn't made that deal, I'd have never gone to Hell, broke that first seal. You wouldn't have been desperate enough to turn to Ruby, to have been manipulated to the point of…well, you know. You did all that because you thought it was right, and you made up for it. Fuck, you more than made up for it. I never actually told you this Sammy, but as hard as it was to watch you jump in the pit, I had never been more proud of you. You sacrificed yourself not just for me, but for this whole godforsaken excuse of a planet."

Now the tears were running freely, but Dean didn't care. He relished in the release those tears provided, the healing that letting out his emotions would surely give him. Gently squeezing Sam's hand, Dean cried, all the pent up emotions from the years flowing in that brief indulgence. "I'm so sorry, Sammy." Shaking now, unable to control the pain, letting go of the burden he had been harboring for years. "I can't do this without you. I need you man. Please…"

Sam, as ever, remained unresponsive to the touch, to the sound of his brother's voice. After a few minutes, the tears had subsided, and Dean calmed himself, ashamed of his emotional outburst. If he had seen the kind nurse peer in, witnessing the whole scene, Dean would have been mortified beyond belief. Fortunately, the kind young woman recognized the intimate moment and slipped away. For the rest of the afternoon, an emotionally exhausted Dean sat at Sam's bedside, waiting for what would surely be the inevitable.

xxx

"I'm so sorry Sammy…"

So faint, and yet, even in the depths of unconsciousness, Sam could hear his brother's voice, the pain, the emotion. As usual, the stupid ass was blaming himself for everything. Someone else could be standing nearby with the proverbial smoking gun, and, if it involved Sam's wellbeing, it would always be Dean's fault.

It's my job… How many times had he heard his brother tell him that? That it was his job to protect him, as if the sole purpose of Dean Winchester's existence was to be his older brother, and to watch over him day and night for the rest of his life? Dean couldn't always be there, it was just the laws of nature. One of these days, something would happen, something Dean would not be able to prevent. Hell, on more than one occasion, Sam had been irritated by it. Did his brother really think that little of himself? Did he truly believe that the bane of his existence was to keep his eye open for his kid brother? In a way it had been kind of insulting. "I can take care of myself, Dean," he had told him on more than one occasion. "You don't need to be protecting me 24/7."

But now, even while in the grasp of this endless nightmare, in between the rare moments of peace Lucifer provided, Sam could hear his brother as he mourned, and it frustrated him that he could not provide comfort. If he could just pierce that veil, to somehow reach out to Dean, tell him that it was OK. Well, that would be a lie, having Lucifer tormenting you endlessly was far from the definition of OK, but at the moment, he would do anything to provide some sense of comfort to his grieving brother. But it was impossible. There was no way he was coming to any time soon. Sam sighed, and worry for his brother surged him like a tidal wave. Who knew what Dean would do if Sam didn't wake up? Would he make another deal? True, he had admitted that night in New Harmony that his deal had been a mistake. Fuck, just now, though ever so faint, Sam had heard his brother's confessional, of how he truly believed that his deal had kick started this whole mess in the first place. But then, the Winchesters were notorious for sacrificing themselves, and all for the greater good…

"It's not your fault, Dean. I pomise…"

Damn it, this was so frustrating! To be so close to Dean, and yet so far. To be able to hear him, see him, and not be able to provide comfort. This must be what a restless spirit goes through, Sam thought, and for a wonder, had considered the possibility. If Dean would just pull the plug, let him go, and then he could become a spirit. He and Dean could tag team, just like old times, and forget about the damn Leviathan, Dick Roman….and he'd be free from Lucifer. Surely the Devil would leave him alone then. He had almost considered the idea, enjoyed the thought of becoming the very thing he and his brother used to hunt, when suddenly a familiar voice could be heard in the distance.

"Sam."

He froze. No. It couldn't be true.

It couldn't be Castiel. The angel was dead. Had disappeared into that lake, leaving only his signature trench coat. But that voice was unmistakable. Soft, gravelly, somehow sounding both with and without emotion at the same time (a feat which had always puzzled the Winchesters). Sam did not want to look, wanting so badly for the voice to be Cas, and deathly afraid that he would be wrong. But still, the young man took a chance. Breathing deeply, Sam called out the angel's name: "Cas?"

"Sam." That voice again, and this time, Sam dared to look up, open his eyes. And, sure enough, there stood Cas, dressed as usual in his beige trench coat, complete with loose tie and spikey dark blond hair. Sam broke out into a smile; rushed toward the angel with more affection he had ever shown him when he was alive. Cas, however, was as stoic as ever, never once cracking a smile. His clear blue eyes stared at Sam intently, and his head tilted in that funny way that he had done since first rescuing Dean that September morning all those years ago.

"Sam, it's time."

"What? What are you saying Cas?" But Sam knew, deep in his heart, the reason for Cas' visit. He remembered his father's journal, the time he had searched it for any details on reapers. One vital bit of information hinted that they could change perception, in hopes of enticing those whose time was up to go with them. Could Castiel really be a reaper? For a moment, Sam said nothing, but the need to know the truth was too much. Hardly daring to ask the question, Sam quietly spoke: "Are you a reaper? Cas, are you hear to reap me?"

"No, technically I am not a reaper, but that is not of import." Even in a vision, Cas was always to the point, grammatically correct to the point of sounding silly. Under any other circumstances, Sam would have rolled his eyes at the angel's dialect. But the relief to hear Cas say that he was not a reaper was just too overwhelming.

"But that doesn't mean that you should remain in this state. Dean will go on without you. He has before, he can do it again. I can restore the woman and boy's memories, and Dean can go back to them."

"No. That is not an option." Sam surprised himself with the vehemence in his voice. "That man has gone through so much, I can't do this to him. He needs me. You know what happened after Cold Oak. Yeah, he told me he'd never make another deal, but I know the man. I know just how far he will go for family. Please, don't make him go through that again."

"Sam. I cannot vouch for the choices your brother makes. We all die at some point in our lives. It is inevitable. You cannot live forever, and Dean cannot always be sacrificing himself for you."

"Tell that to Dean, then," Sam muttered, and Castiel blinked momentarily, still not quite familiar with sarcasm. "I'm not physically able to do that…"

"Never mind." Sam closed his eyes, and for a moment considered Cas' words. After all, not five minutes earlier, he had considered the option of dying, of being a spirit and remaining with Dean after death. Macabre? Hell yeah, but at least Dean would have his brother back, albeit in the metaphysical sense. But now, now that Cas had voiced this opinion directly, death suddenly didn't have its appeal.

"Sam, you are running out of time. You need to make a choice…"

Sam looked at Castiel, confused. "What? I need to make a choice now? Wh- what's going on? Cas, TELL ME! CAS!"

xxx

Dean's green eyes widened in fear at the sound of the heart monitor as it flat lined. Terrified, he reached for the call button, pressed it franticly with trembling hands. In minutes, several doctors and nurses rushed into the room, a crash cart in tow. One pushed Dean out of the way, the young man allowing himself to be pushed. Oh god, no. This can't be happening. Not now. Not to Sammy…

"Extra CCs of epi, stat!" The doctor barked the orders and the nurses administered the drug, to no avail. After several amps, the doctor charged his crash cart, attempting to shock the life back in Sam's frail body.

"Clear!" Dean watched in horror as his brother's body jerked and convulsed in the bed. Sam, his Sammy, was on the brink of death, and there was nothing Dean could do about it.

"Charging clear!" A second, and then a third attempt, was made to resuscitate, to no avail. Dean felt his legs turn to rubber beneath him, and he slid to the floor, suddenly nauseous. An orderly was at his side in moments, lifting him up and offering to lead him out of the room, but Dean refused. Not when his brother was dying before his very eyes.

"Starting chest compressions." Dean closed his eyes, unable to watch. "Please, Sammy, please," he whispered, clutching to the kind orderly for dear life. The room suddenly seemed deathly quiet, the only noise the man being able to hear clearly the incessant hum of the flat line…