Chapter 10

Dean opened his eyes and was immediately assaulted by the familiar sight of black rising cavern walls and a ceiling so far up it could barely be seen. The stench of fear wrapped pain wove about him, screams ringing in the distance. The bite of the restraints strung over his arms and legs sent twinges of pain down his limbs. And for the first time ever, all of this dredged up a different emotion other than panic, fear or dread. Instead what he felt was total and absolute relief.

It had all been a nightmare. A long horrible nightmare. Did the damned even dream though? It had probably been a trick of Alistair's and he'd come boast about it at any moment. The important thing though was that Sammy was safe. He was alive. And Dean was exactly where he was supposed to be to keep him that way.

He could have wept, he was so grateful. Not that he'd ever let the demon know.

And thanks to what he remembered he'd be able to persevere that much longer knowing the nightmare wasn't real.

"It's so nice to finally have you back with us, Dean."

A cold tendril raked up his back at the voice, terror flooding his every pore. He knew that voice, knew it very well, and it wasn't Alistair's.

Almost against his will, he turned his face to the left, in the direction of the voice. His brother stood there, long dark brown hair slicked back, blood and clumps of scales covering his pale skin. But his eyes weren't the clear hazel Dean was used to. Instead they were entirely black, from end to end.

"I've really been looking forward to us spending some time together again." Sam raised his hand. Nestled in it was a long ebony blade. "There are all sorts of things I want to share with you, all sorts of things I learned." He stepped toward him. "We'll never be separated again, you and I."

The cold smile on his face promised this and so very much more.

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Dean sat up, his stomach heaving, a strangled scream stuck in his throat. He clamped his mouth shut, eyes flickering wildly back and forth in an attempt to get his bearings, his hand automatically shifting behind him looking for a weapon. His fingers ran across a familiar handle and he pulled the long knife out to hold protectively before him.

Gloom filled the enclosed space, dark drapes lying across broad windows. Heavy snoring rumbled across the room from his left. Dean was in a bed and there was someone in another parallel to his. The form hidden beneath the covers though was too short and wide to be his brother.

Of course not. Because Sammy was dead.

Dean doubled over, the flash of unwanted knowledge feeling like a stab in his gut.

They'd failed to open the Devil's Gate. Then Bobby had driven them to some motel somewhere and tried to get him to eat and get some rest. And this was what he got for the trouble. A sparkling of hope crushed before his very eyes and then turned into his worst fears.

Grief and loss squeezed him from the inside but worse than that was the knowledge that what he'd seen in his mind's eye had every possibility of someday coming to pass. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. Not a damn thing.

His stomach heaved once more full of revulsion and denial. He staggered off the bed toward the bathroom, determined not to throw up, but also not wanting to take any chances. Who knew what Bobby thought of him now after yesterday's cry fest. All he needed to do was look like a total weakling on top of it. His friend probably wouldn't hold it against him, but that wasn't the point.

And Sammy was gone.

If he hadn't been so selfish, so desperate to have his brother with him, even if only for a little while, Sam's soul would be free and not being raked over the coals in Hell being turned into something his family would hunt.

Dean closed the bathroom door and locked it. Though it made it pitch black in there, except for a miniscule nightlight built into the wall socket, he didn't want to turn on the lights. He didn't dare risk seeing his reflection in the mirror. The face he was wearing wasn't his. And if he saw his brother's distraught face looking back at him, he didn't know what he'd do. But he was sure it wouldn't be pretty. Not feeling like he felt right then.

He groped around until he found and turned on the tap then splashed cold water on his face. It did little to help his anger and grief but it numbed his face. His face – it would never be his, not even with the fact Sam was never coming back – it just never would. And a totally irrelevant matter it was anyway. He was stuck. What was done was done and he'd never be able to undo it. Yet it still felt like he had failed, like he should be able to do something about it even now.

At this rate, he might just very well go mad.

He barked out a laugh but it wasn't his. It sounded like Sammy, it could have been Sammy – a Sam that had turned evil, dark and rotten.

Dean gripped the sink as hard as he could, trying to drive the thought back until he couldn't feel his stolen hands anymore.

Sam Winchester Was Dead.

Long Live the New Samuel Winchester!

Dean glanced up and with the poor lighting he could only see a vague form staring back. Should he change and be Sam? Only Bobby knew the truth. And if he tried hard enough, he was sure he could convince him otherwise -- temporary insanity or some such. Because who knew Sam better than he did? Sometimes he thought he knew his brother better than his brother knew himself.

How hard would it honestly be? Hadn't he pretended he was a chip off the old block for his whole life? Wearing his father's coat, driving his father's car, embracing his father's music. Doing the same with Sam but just taking it a little further shouldn't be a problem. He had the body and that was normally the hardest bit to pull off.

But even if he fooled the world, would it be enough? Would it be enough to fool himself?

He grabbed the amulet hanging off his neck and squeezed already knowing the answer.

Dean wanted to die. But even that was denied him. Because to kill himself would be to kill Sam's body. And while he may be responsible for a lot of things, that would not be one of them.

Head hanging low, he shut the water off and left the bathroom.

Dean stared at the gloom shrouded cookie cutter motel room, at their duffels, the ratty table and TV. Things he and Sam had shared their whole lives, their only constants aside from the Impala and their father. Motel rooms were Winchester gypsy wagons in a way. All different yet all the same. Theirs. But now they were just his. Their image and the feelings tied to them soiled as their home in Kansas had been soiled. Spoiled by violent death. He didn't belong here anymore. And he wouldn't be here one moment longer than he had to.

He walked silently to the room's front door and let himself out.

The sunshine blinded him, making blink back furiously as the brightness hurt his eyes. His bare feet burned on the sun warmed concrete. He stared around him at the mostly empty parking lot filled with worn white lines, the dark asphalt looking melted in places as the heat rose up off of it and caused a shimmering mirage. Though he had seen this very thing hundreds if not thousands of times, today it felt alien, make believe. Would the whole world unravel if he just quit believing in it?

He sat down on the motel room's lone step and tried to do just that.