Eeeesh, sorry about the long wait, I swear this story gets harder to write with every chapter. I did cut this one short, partly to get it out there sooner but mainly because it worked better that way. Hope you enjoy.

Chapter 12

He feels like he's been dreaming for weeks. Not living, just dreaming, an endless cycle of images and sensations and words and conversations none of which he can recall or grasp on to. They continue like that on a loop, over and over and never ending. It's like floating through memories that you aren't even sure are your own because they feel real but you're not sure if they really happened or they're just part of your dreams. His body doesn't feel like his own, feels like it's floating like a cloud, but a cloud dense and heavy like a rock and he's so heavy but light and flossy at the same time, like his insides are melting or disintegrating into wool. Wool that's wet and heavy and dragging him into the earth.

He turns over for the hundredth time in ten minutes and tries to stop the dream, the dream that doesn't make any sense or have any sort of structure to it - so much so that if he were asked to describe it he wouldn't be able to because his mind has no words or basis for it. He makes another attempt to stop it, to bring it to an abrupt end, shake his mind free and find his way back to reality, tries to latch on to what used to feel normal and familiar but the images keep replaying in his head although he can't make sense of them, can't even articulate them in his own mind.

His limbs ache and his head pounds like he's got a bad case of the flu and for a few seconds he wonders if that's the problem, that everything that's buzzing around is head is simply a reaction to a fever and that's why he feels so strange. He starts to doubt some of the memories, the darker ones, the ones that his mind won't allow him to dwell on for longer than a moment, wonders if they ever really happened and then wonders - if they're not real- why they fill him with so much fear.

A sharp pain in his elbow jolts him out of the haze and into another reality. He rubs away the throb which he recognises as a result of a collision with something hard, possibly the night stand and is glad of the disruption to the sick film show playing through his head. Frustrated and tired he sits up and looks around him, the semi-darkness not coming as a shock, as some artificial light from out side provides a little information for him. The walls seem vaguely familiar. A chair, curtains, another bed and someone in it.

Sam.

His little brother.

He sits up and slides his legs out of the bed standing to walk around the second bed. He watches Sam breathe, the rise and fall of his chest, rhythmic, consistent, predictable. Sam breathes in and his lungs fill and then he breathes out and his chest falls and then again and again. He could stand here all night and it wouldn't change. Some things in life are certain. Fixed. A truth which cannot be denied. The sun will rise and then it will set. Wind blows and trees move. Rain falls and plants grow. Babies will be born and grow up, grow old and then die. Some won't. Some will die in the womb and some will die before their time because sometimes bad things just happen. Some things you can predict, expect, prepare for, rely on. You turn on the news and you can expect to hear of death, of loss, of injury, of war, of destruction, of poverty and now and again some lame story about how a man's daughter's pet hamster saved the entire family from a fate worse than death, something trite and banal to fill in the gaps when there's nothing else to report.

Some things you can count on.

And some things you can't.

He doesn't realise he's left the motel room until he feels the cold gravel under his bare feet and the chill of the wind causing the hairs on his arms to rise. He ignores the sting of sharp stone under foot as he slowly increases the distance between himself and his sleeping brother, ignores the bite of the wind and the danger of the darkness in front of him and doesn't stop to think where it is he's going until he sees her.

His eyes fall on her and he stops, the soreness in his feet registering and a shiver runs through him as his brain identifies the cold. His world stops as he notices her presence and suddenly everything seems to make sense. The dark, the cold, the yellow glow of the street light illuminating her familiar shape and curves, the angles, the lines, the light reflecting off her surface the way light should, the gleam, the solid reliable form - all of it makes perfect sense. Logical, predictable and familiar and he's by her side in an instant his fingers running across her frame, down the glass, sparks shooting up through his finger tips, through his veins and into his soul awakening his mind and his memories, memories he knows, without question are real.

He closes his eyes, concentrating on the sensation in his hands as they move slowly over her surface and finally come to rest somewhere near his hip and he encloses them around her, tightens his grip and feels her give, the click and the familiar creak he could have predicted, comforting, reassuring as she opens herself to him. She doesn't stop him from entering her, welcomes him in, doesn't turn him away, doesn't pause to consider whether he deserves her presence and accepts him without hesitation, without condition and he falls heavily into her embrace, the leather soft, warm, soothing, familiar, supporting his weight firmly, offering him a place to just exist.

He wishes he could take her somewhere, far from here, just the two of them, drive forever until they reach the end of the world and then just keep going over into oblivion, falling, flying, until the end of time and everything else would just cease to be. He would be alone with her forever because that is how it should be because it had always been her. His one constant. The one thing that had never changed despite everything and he can't remember a time when she hadn't been there for him.

Ever since the beginning she had been a constant presence. She had supported him, taken care of him and his family, whisked them away from danger, given them a home when there was no where for them. The places they had visited, the crap holes they had stayed in and the horrors they had seen had all been left behind when every morning without fail, they would greet her in the place they had left her, where she had remained waiting patiently for them and taken them to their next destination without complaint or faltering.

When she'd become his, she'd accepted him like it was meant to be. She'd never failed to look after him, never failed to answer his calls when she had needed fixing, responded to his hands, never failed him, never left him. Even when she had been almost destroyed along with the life that he had known, she had forgiven him his betrayal, allowed him to vent his anger and grief and agony on her, taken it, accepted it without judgement. She had patiently allowed him his outburst and then waited until he was ready to start over, allowed him to restore her to her former state, hadn't held a grudge, accepted his care without bitterness and she had repaid his refusal to give up on her with her own; undying, unyielding and forever constant. Always there. Always ready.

He leans his head against the cool glass, feels the weight in his limbs sink away into her as his eyes fill with tears. He breathes in her scent, leather mixed with that of himself, his brother, maybe even Bobby but combined it's just her. He allows her to infuse through his lungs and into his blood, soothing him from within, cleansing him of confusion, fear, insecurity, lies and all that's within him that he despises, replacing it with truth, certainty and clarity.

This is his reality. This is his safety. This is his normal.

This is where he can rest.

Sam panics when he wakes up alone.

Like most nights of late he'd stayed awake until he'd been satisfied Dean was asleep, waited until the breathing fell into a regular pattern and the creases on his forehead had faded. Only then had he been able to let sleep take him too. He'd been exhausted. The last few days or so he'd watched as Dean had slowly returned to him, the fear and confusion fading and replaced by the familiar mask which he recognised. As Dean's sense of reality had gradually drifted back his defences had followed suit. There had been no more tears, no more questions or heartbroken pleas. He hadn't woken up screaming since Bobby had left either. Instead he'd woken up breathing hard, biting down on his lip, his face betraying the visions of horror he'd seen in his sleep for only a second before the walls came back up.

And Sam hadn't known whether to be relieved - or something else.

Bobby had called of course. Checked in as he had called it and Sam had pretty much lied and told him Dean was getting there and was fine etc. etc. and Bobby had heard the unspoken words, seen right through the lies without having to see the tears in Sam's eyes and Sam had known all too well that Bobby hadn't fallen for any of it. Bobby had pretended he had, naturally and Sam had pretended that he believed that Bobby believed him because that was what they did.

It was confusing, not telling the truth but better than the alternative.

Because Sam knows that Dean isn't getting better and probably never will, Dean is just turning back into Dean again, the Dean who had always been screwed up, unhinged and broken anyway but now with just a little more crap to add to the collection of crappiness that he had acquired over the years.

But Dean hadn't spoken. Dean barely looked at him and hardly responded when spoken to. He'd gone through the normal routines, spent the day staring at the TV or into space and even eating a little but showed little evidence or suggestion of what was going off in his head. Sam had figured that Dean was just processing and that it was only a matter of time before he returned to normal. He had been able to see it in his eyes. Gone was the lost and frightened little boy who had looked to him to make it right, begged him not to leave, allowed him to provide comfort, leaned on him, cried on him and on his way back was his big brother, gradually rebuilding the walls that had been shattered, slowly piecing himself back together again because he was Dean Winchester and that was what he did.

But Sam had hated the silence, missed the banter and ached to just hear his brother's voice again and then at the end of a particularly long and non eventful day, just before they had both climbed into their respective beds Sam had turned to him and asked:

"Dean, when you gonna start talkin' to me again?"

Dean had just looked at him and for a second the mask had slipped and Sam saw the agony and horror he'd seen when he'd first found his brother tied to that post in that warehouse. But in a second it had vanished. Dean had turned away and closed his eyes. Shut him out. And it was so typically Dean.

That had been last night and something must have changed because when an unknown factor causes Sam to wake, he instinctively knows something is wrong. He feels the emptiness before he sees it. Senses the lack of something in the room; feels the absence of his brother and although the turning of his head towards where Dean should be simply confirms what he had already known, it doesn't prevent the wave of nausea washing over him.

He doesn't waste time by putting on his shoes or his coat, ignores the gravel scratching his feet as he finds himself outside and pacing across the car lot towards the Impala. he thinks he can see something inside, a shape pressing across the glass, a shadow created by the street light and he hopes, prays that it's real and not an optical illusion, or his mind making up what it wants to see and then feels the weight lift as he reaches the window to find his brother asleep, head leaning against the glass, looking decidedly peaceful and strangely comfortable.

He lifts a hand with the intention of knocking his brother awake then stops. It hits him then. Why Dean is here, why he'd chosen the cramped, cold interior of his car rather than the comfort of a warm bed. Why he'd left the safety of the motel room, left the security and companionship of his brother and chosen solitude. Why he'd chosen to be alone.

He feels safer with her than with me.

The guilt hits Sam before the tears spring into his eyes. His brother had chosen the company of a car, an inanimate object, over him. He knows it's just a car; logic, common sense and basic physics tells him that. He knows the car doesn't have a soul, doesn't have feelings and even if it has been the closest thing to a home either of them have had in a very long time he knows that the car can't and won't give his brother what he needs. But Dean obviously feels differently. Sam shudders. Sam feels sick to his stomach because he isn't sure of the reasons why. The reasons why Dean is sat huddled up inside a metal casing with no ability to offer anything other than a way from A to B and a place to sleep and he can't decide if it's what the car represents or the fact that the alternative is pretty crappy.

A car, a finite object could never change. Things don't change. Of course they get old, dirty and rusty and sometimes break but if you treat them with care, with respect they will last and they will remain unchanging. The same. People aren't so reliable. People screw up, people let you down, people hurt you and lie to you and leave you.

But the car never had. He had looked after the car and in return the car had stayed the same. The car had never shot him, the car had never called him pathetic, the car had never tortured him, the car had never been possessed by a psychopathic demon that had then used its frame to taunt and humiliate him. The car didn't yell at him or scold him whenever he was being an ass, didn't force him to talk when all he wanted to do was forget, the car had never left him and the car had never gotten itself killed so that he had no other choice but to sell his fucking soul for it.

"Dean..."

He whispers his brother's name, his breath catching in his throat, wishes he could tell him a million things but doesn't even know where to begin. He swallows back the pain, chin involuntarily trembling and touches the window lightly where his brother's head rests, lets it hover there for a moment, imagining that the glass isn't there, pretends the barrier between them doesn't exist and then briskly, before he can change his mind, whips open the car door and catches the shoulders, as they slide out into the cold night air, Dean's head flopping heavily on to his shoulder. He shifts his weight and then slides his left hand and forearm under Dean's knees, carefully lifting him out of the car and into his arms.

"I'm sorry man; I can't let you sleep out here."

He shuts the door with his foot, wincing at what Dean would say to him at showing his baby such a total lack of respect, almost finds himself about to apologise to her, then thinks better of it before carrying his sleeping lump of family back to the motel room.

With the door closed he stands there back aching, holding his brother knowing that if he values his spine he really should relinquish his charge but something is stopping him. Dean feels cold in his arms but at least he can feel him and a part of him just can't bear to let that go. He turns his head and presses his chin into Dean's cropped hair closing his eyes as the ache in his chest almost floors him; he shudders and breathes in sharply swallowing back the sob in his throat as the tears come close to overflow. He rapidly blinks them away snapping himself out of his misery before finally lowering his brother, slowly, carefully on to his bed.

He's getting used to putting Dean to bed it seems and he's starting to learn exactly how to position him to avoid disturbing or waking him.

He sits and waits a few seconds to be sure that he's settled before sighing deeply, once again at a loss as to his next course of action. Once again grateful that he doesn't have to face this right now, doesn't have to fix it right now because he has no idea how to fix it. How to fix Dean or how to fix himself.

Sam doesn't get anymore sleep that night.

When he steps out of the shower he's surprised to see Dean sat up in bed rubbing at his eyes and for a second he forgets that everything isn't fucked up beyond all recognition and is actually fooled into thinking this is just another day.

"Morning sunshine."

The blank, hollow stare Dean throws at him shatters that illusion pretty much immediately and he looks away wincing, his stomach doing that thing it does when it's just remembered that everything is still fucked up beyond all recognition.

He pads across to his bed to retrieve his clothes, rubbing at his hair with a small towel, a larger one wrapped around his waist.

"Listen, sorry to break up your party with the car, but it was getting kinda cold and..."

"I was fine Sam. You shouldn't have bothered."

He looks across at his brother, a little startled to hear him speak, a little relived to hear his voice sounding somewhere near normal. There's a painful moment of silence as their eyes meet. Then Sam swallows and looks away.

"I'm sorry, I just... I was worried about you."

Dean shrugs throwing back the covers.

"Nothin' to be sorry for Sammy, just next time save yourself the trouble."

"It wasn't any trouble."

Sam meets his eyes again and it's Dean's turn to avert his gaze, frowning uncomfortably as he swings his legs out of the bed, pushing himself stiffly and groggily to his feet. He's about to head to the bathroom when the pitiful sound of his little brother's voice pulls him back.

"I'll make it up to you ok?"

He turns to look at Sam once again and Sam's staring back, a look of pleading on his face, a look that Dean had witnessed so many times. He frowns slightly his head shaking a little, questioning.

"Make up for what?"

"For all the things I've done that made you trust a heap of metal more than me."

The comment hits him like a large and extremely heavy piece of furniture flung at him by an angry poltergeist, only it hurts twice as much and leaves him twice as stunned for twice as long but he somehow manages to do the decent thing and hold Sam's gaze and even from across the room he can see his little brother's eyes filling with tears and annoyingly finds his own doing the same.

"You didn't do anything, Sam..."

"Exactly."

Sam's gaze falters once again and he wonders if Dean can hear the unspoken words which seem to be screaming at him from within.

I didn't stop it. I didn't save you. I can't save you.

"Sammy..."

"It's ok; you don't have to say anything. Just...believe me when I say I'll make it up to you, ok?"

He glances back up briefly to see Dean shaking his head, looking a little sad and maybe even guilty Sam thinks which is pretty much frigging typical. Sam tries not to look at him with the puppy eyes. Sam fails miserably.

"Sam, come on..."

Dean watches as his baby brother shrugs and looks down at his feet and then across to the side then back at him for a moment and then to the other side where they flicker about a little and then his voice goes all weak and throaty as if he's trying his hardest not to cry like a girl but Dean reckons he's fighting a losing battle.

"I just...I feel like I let you down."

"What?"

It's lame he knows but he's not sure what else he's supposed to say to that.

"It's ok, you should get in the shower, we're wasting the day."

Sam's mouth twitches up at the corner in a weak attempt at a smile, hurriedly scrubs a hand through his hair and starts looking around the room again probably to avoid eye contact Dean thinks but he doesn't push it, just watches him work through a thousand different emotions aware that he's pretty much helpless to do anything about them. Sam eventually finds his t-shirt and picks it up fingering it absently, finding the stitching incredibly fascinating apparently. He exhales sharply before looking up at his brother doing a really crappy job of pretending that his heart isn't breaking.

"So, you wanna go out for breakfast, or eat in."

Dean gives him an answer without needing to consider.

"In."

"No problem. Just let me get dressed and I'll go grab somethin'."

"Ok, little brother."

Sam gives him a one sided smile before turning away again. Dean smiles back a little, though it doesn't really reach his eyes, heads off to the bathroom, then pauses, his hand on the door and turns back.

"Oh, and Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"F.Y.I. - you refer to my baby as - and I quote: 'a heap of metal' again - I will have no other choice but to hit you."

Sam catches the familiar sparkle in Dean's eyes and laughs, only a little, but the light that returns to his eyes lifts Dean's mood enough to give them both some hope at least of getting through the next twenty four hours.

Later Sam returns with breakfast and they eat in silence, Dean flicking through TV channels, Sam skimming the local paper for news, omens or anything else to take his mind off of recent events. He occasionally looks across at his brother, opens his mouth to say something then changes his mind and turns back to the paper. The fifth time Dean huffs and sits up.

"Sam! Quit it ok? You got somethin' to say, just say it."

Sam smiles half heartedly and folds up the paper.

"I was just...I dunno, wondering how you were doing. I mean you haven't..."

"I'm fine, Sam."

Sam looks away muttering something which sounds a lot like 'annoyingly' and 'predictable'. Dean glares. Then looks away. Then sighs.

"What would you like me to say Sam? You prefer me to say I'm not fine? That I feel like crap? That I'm totally and completely fucked up? That make you happy?"

Sam looks at him sadly and shrugs.

"I just want you to be honest."

Dean turns back to the television.

"I'm fine, Sam. Honestly."

Sam looks away again pulling a face.

"You're a liar."

Another sigh.

Sam slaps the paper down on the table and gets to his feet, keeps his tone light.

"Fine. If you're fine then why don't we go see Bobby? See if he has any news."

Dean flinches but otherwise ignores the comment just as Sam knew he would.

"Hm. What I thought."

He drops back into his seat with a heavy huff, deflated and annoyed, like a cranky teenager Dean thinks.

Dean flicks the TV on to standby and turns to Sam his temper rising a notch.

"What the hell do you want from me, Sam?"

Sam swivels in his chair to face his irritated brother, feeling just as irritated, his hands flying out to the side in that way he does when he's reaching the end of his patience.

"I want you to talk to me, Dean. Is that really so fucking hard for you?"

"Actually, Sam, yes. It is."

They eyeball each other for a few seconds neither of them knowing who it is they're really angry with, both of them feeling pretty crappy about it and both of them wishing for some kind of reprieve, an interval within all the angst and perhaps just a short break from feeling so fucking miserable.

Sam's the first to look away and Dean can tell it's because his brother feels so frigging guilty about everything, because he thinks he's to blame, because he thinks he's the cause of why their lives are so incredibly messed up right now. He watches Sam fidget with his hands, picking at the skin on his thumb, his jaw moving from side to side, a subtle movement, almost unnoticeable, but to him an obvious sign he's in distress and maybe about a second away from tears. Which of course makes him feel like something very similar to shit.

"Sam..."

Sam nods, still looking miserable.

"I know."

"I just can't, alright Sam? Not about this. Not this time. I just... I can't. "

Sam's mouth twitches again as if he's trying hard to smile, to let his brother know it's ok, which might be the slightest bit more convincing if he could at least make eye contact.

"Sammy, it'll be ok. Truth is I can't even remember most of it. Kinda like a bad dream y' know?"

Sam nods reluctantly, still feeling and looking like hell, still feeling like a failure, but decides he isn't going to push Dean this time and it's partly because he doesn't really want to hear the details and partly because he has no idea how he'd deal with it anyway were Dean to actually spill and tell him everything. There's a fine line between not wanting to face something and not being able to. Sam knows that sometimes it really is just better to try and forget rather than pick it to pieces. Some things are just too difficult to face, too painful to discuss and some things are just impossible to fix anyway.

Some people are just impossible to fix.

He hadn't really expected Dean to talk because that would just be too frigging normal and too frigging well adjusted. Of course it doesn't really matter if you deal with your inner demons if you're already going to Hell. What's the point in putting yourself through hours of therapy, or exorcising all the crap inside of you if you're destined for an eternity of suffering anyway? He can't really blame Dean for seeing things that way but that doesn't mean he has to agree with him. He'd decided a long time ago that when they'd won the war and he'd gotten his brother's soul back that he and Dean were going to have one big fuck off talk and if Dean didn't like it then he could so screw himself.

They spend the rest of the day in the motel room because he gets the feeling that Dean can't face going outside although he never actually admits anything of the sort and the next day they head off to another town and Sam can sense things almost returning to normal, although it's normal wearing a clown's outfit because something feels wrong, because something is wrong because only days ago his brother was tortured by a demon possessing someone who was like a surrogate father to them and now he's acting like none of it ever happened.

So yeah, almost normal. Normal with a nervous tick.

"So, what about this one Sam. You think it's worth checkin' out?"

Sam leans over his brother's shoulder and scans the page. There's a picture of someone in a bear outfit holding up a ridiculously large cheque and a supposedly witty headline accompanying it, underneath there's a story about some z-lister whose been done for drink driving and to the left, the story he assumes his brother had been reading. There's a really bad sketch of someone with an impossibly large head, cross eyes and resembling something that really ought to be chained to a pole in a dusty old loft with only brief visits from it's psychopathic, interbreeding loving family.

"Hm, looks a bit like that dude from The Goonies."

"The who-sies?"

Dean looks up frowning questioningly at Sam who in turn gives his older brother an odd look before returning to the text scanning the short paragraph accompanying the hideous cartoon. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise and disbelief.

"Dude, seriously. Cher?"

Dean shrugs.

"S'what it says."

"You're not seriously buying this?"

Dean frowns and looks a little hurt. Sam laughs and reads aloud using his best I'm a Nasty Sarcastic Bitch voice.

"Dude, it says and I quote 'a revolting and hideous beast with an ardent penchant for Cher...'"

He pauses for effect glancing at Dean who pouts and scowls at him even harder before licking his lip and turning back to the laughable so called story.

"'...for Cher...um...has been seen frequenting the local woods performing karaoke...'"

"Dude, I can read."

Dean pulls the paper away from Sam's view and pouts again, still offended at his brother's mocking.

Sam chuckles.

"Dude, seriously, it's like - a hoax."

"You don't know that."

Sam laughs again and turns to flop down on to his bed.

"Look if you're really that desperate for somethin' to do then maybe we could, um chase some of these leads I've been workin' on."

"What leads?"

Dean discards the newspaper and turns in his seat to face Sam, the petulant scowl now replaced with a worried and slightly irritated frown. Sam scratches the back of his neck and looks away awkwardly.

"Um, leads on your um... deal."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up in his best patronising big brother expression.

"What you mean like more hoodoo crap?"

"Dude, it's not all hoodoo crap - as you so delicately put it."

Sam's pleading puppy eyes follow Dean as he stands and walks around to his bed to retrieve his bag. A little distraction and something for him to do while his brother attempts to draw him into yet another argument.

"Sam, it's a waste of time."

He sits on the opposite bed and begins taking his weapons out of his bag, one by one, retrieves a filthy old rag and begins to pretend to clean them, check them and generally just moves them around, doing his best to ignore Sam who has now got to his feet to follow him like the little bitch that he is.

"Dean, we could at least look into it..."

"Look, I'm not having this conversation with you again, alright? We're not chasing any leads on the deal."

He drops a gun back into his bag and turns his best Because I said So look on to his little brother who is now towering over him like a Great Dane would over a man who had just been shrunk by some weird ass potion.

Sam sighs. A sound which sums up his entire frustration of having to relive this conversation over and over. He drops back down on to the bed, now facing Dean who has at least given up the pretence of cleaning guns.

"Dude, the whole 'because I say so' thing stopped working on me when I turned eighteen alright?"

"That's a bunch o' crap Sam. No matter how old you get, I'll always be older. Older as in wiser, smarter and better lookin'. now you gonna let this drop?"

"No."

The inflection makes it sound like a question and the hands thrown to the side in a gesture of indignation give Dean little option but to respond.

"Sam, come on, we've been here before. Like a thousand times already. You telling me you're not bored with this cos I know I am."

"Bored? Oh yeah I'm bored alright. Bored of how you can't even be bothered to help me save your ass."

"Because it's a waste of time Sam! You can't save me alright? No one can. And I'm sorry, but you're just gonna have to get used to it."

Sam leans forward pointing his finger towards Dean's chest.

"You see Dean, it's that attitude which pisses me off. Get used to it like... like you just suddenly decided to go vegetarian, or voluntarily bald, or...gay."

Dean scowls horrified.

He shuffles backwards on to his bed still frowning at Sam until his back meets with the head board.

"Dude. What's wrong with you?"

He picks up the remote from on top of the night stand and turns his look of mortification towards the television. Sam still doing his indignant wavy hands thing. And his eyebrows are now firmly knitted together as well.

"Me? What's wrong with you?"

"Hey! You know how I feel about meat products."

"You're being a dick."

"Well I know what you are but what am I?"

"Dean!"

Dean doesn't turn from the TV. Flicks through the channels briskly in that way he knows Sam finds incredibly annoying.

"See that's what I admire about you college boy, you're just so damn articulate."

"Dean..."

"Sam. Sam. Sam. Do I sound as smart as you? Do I? Do I? Do I?"

Dean flips through the channels in time to his mantra.

"Cut it out!"

"Make me."

Sam lunges forward and makes a grab for the remote only to have his hand slapped away by his big brother. He slaps him back and a flurry of hands later he has the remote in his possession and switches off the TV.

"Hey! I was watching that."

"No you weren't!"

"Was."

"You're acting like a child, Dean!"

"I know what you are but what am I?"

"You're a dick."

"I know you are but what am I?"

Sam huffs and folds his arms. Dean grins.

"Once again I win."

He retrieves the remote and turns the TV back on.

"Dean, it's not a competition."

"Sure it is. It's a battle of wills: your geek hood versus my charisma and devastating good looks."

Sam stands there seething; arms still crossed looking incredibly pissed. Dean looks up at him and raises an eyebrow.

"Y' know what you're right - it's not much of a competition."

Sam turns away pushing his hands through his hair and produces a prolonged noise sounding something similar to a farmyard animal but whatever it is it most definitely deserves to have a new word named after it. Dean turns his head giving his brother a thoughtful look.

"Remind me Sam, was that Latin for 'Dude you're an awesome brother'?"

Sam scowls but says nothing and Dean grins, nodding triumphantly

"I think it was."

"Asshole."

"Mimsy."

"Dickwad."

"Prom queen."

"Nobsack."

Sam's final insult causes Dean to sit up not sure whether he should be impressed or disgusted.

"What?"

"You heard."

Sam's plops down on to the chair near the window, his face pulled into what could only be described as Nasty Whiney Bitch.

"Dude where did you even get that, it's not even constitutional."

"It's a word."

Sam pulls another face, which varies only slightly from Nasty Whiney Bitch.

"No. No, it's not. Not any word I know of anyhow."

"It's somethin' I heard Bela say one time, alright?"

"Dude, do not be quoting that evil, sociopathic piece of British skank anywhere near my general vicinity alright? What's it supposed to mean anyway?"

"How the hell should I know? I just liked the way it sounded."

"You're a dork."

The rest of the afternoon continues in a similar vein. The infantile bickering which some may also describe as banter - although not many - starts and stops at regular intervals and Sam almost forgets the misery of the last few days. It helps Dean too. As does the beer they're drinking. Helps as in helps him to forget and also the fact that Sam doesn't look like a picture of misery is always a good thing. Naturally though as more beer is consumed it has the usual effect of convincing Sam that now would be a perfect time to not only drag up age old arguments but also to force a 'moment' on to his big brother, who despite having also consumed a large amount of alcohol, does not feel the need to explore his Inner Woman. Of course, as usual Sam cares little about that fact as he is already fully versed with his Inner Woman, not to mention his Inner Bitch, his Inner Oprah, his Inner Gay Guy and his Inner Pain in the Ass.

"Don't think I didn't notice how you managed to change the subject earlier Dean."

"What?"

Dean is lounging on his bed experimenting with how many curly fries he can fit into his mouth before either the salt makes it go numb or he starts to gag, while Sam sits near the window, flicking through a book that makes War and Peace look like something you would think nothing of wiping your ass on should you be stranded in the wilderness.

"Nothing's changed, just cause you managed to temporarily avoid the subject, doesn't mean I'm just gonna give up on trying to find a way out for you."

Dean rolls his eyes and wipes the salt from around his mouth, before chewing and finally swallowing the remainder of the curly fries.

"Dude, seriously, give it a rest."

Sam shrugs casually.

"Nah. Not until I find a loophole anyway."

He stops to take a long gulp of his beer, then exhales loudly.

"I mean, seriously Dean, did you really think that I would just let this go? Just move on and get over it?"

Dean sits up and grabs his own beer, turning it in his hand and picking subconsciously at the label.

"Actually, I do. Sure you're being a real drama queen about it now but you'll get over it. In fact you'll not only be ok, you'll be better than ok."

He tips the bottle cheerfully towards Sam, to emphasise his point, a point that Sam really didn't need emphasising.

"Excuse me?!"

Dean shrugs, the beer in him affecting the part of his brain that normally tells him to shut the hell up before his little brother smacks him in the mouth.

"You lived without me once, you'll do it again. Lets face it Sam, a big part of you's gonna heave a huge sigh of relief when I'm gone, we both know that."

He regrets it the instant he's said it and he doesn't have to look at Sam to realise just how much he really shouldn't have. He swears he feels the air shift, almost hum with energy, his ears ringing, skin turning to ice and he can almost physically feel the anger radiating from his brother sat only feet away. He swallows thickly, shudders and hopes Sam doesn't notice him flinch, keeps his eyes forward too afraid to turn and look at him.

He doesn't see the flash of anger in his brother's eyes, doesn't see the slight curl of his mouth, or the grinding of his teeth, the faint twitch of his eyebrows, all tell tale signs of the fury, the storm only seconds from erupting.

Dean remains crossed legged on his bed still fiddling with the bottle, eyes now fixed on the label, sensing his brother's anger rising with every passing millisecond and Sam doesn't miss the tensing of his jaw, or the muscles in his arms tightening. His own do the same, synchronised almost in sympathy but the silence hangs like a referee between them, waiting for the next blow to be thrown, until Sam finally inhales deeply, finds his voice, the low, controlled near whisper making Dean's stomach twist.

"That what you really think?"

Dean says nothing, keeps his eyes fixed on their position, wishing he could undo the last thirty seconds.

"Answer me!"

He turns his head towards Sam but doesn't quite meet his eyes, the eyes that are blazing, furious and dark not like his little brother's, but like someone else, something else.

"I just meant that...it'll be easier for you, with me gone."

Sam shakes his head, his voice still low, but now trembling with anger.

"How can you say that? You really think that little of me? That I could just forget you, like all this means nothing? How can you? How you even think it?"

Dean looks at him then and Sam thinks he sees his eyes glistening, which kind of makes sense considering the obvious tremor in his voice.

"Because Sam, it's all I got ok? Holding on to that last bit of hope that..."

The control disappears then both voices rising.

"Hope? Hope, Dean? Hope for what? Hope that you'll die?"

"No Sam! Hope that this thing I did will actually turn out ok. Hope that you'll make it. Hope that one day you'll be ok and hope that maybe for once I actually did something good in my sorry assed life."

This is the point, it seems, where something inside Sam snaps. He's not sure if it's the stress and anxiety of the past few months finally catching up with him, the number of times that Dean has pissed him off with his defeatism, with his death wish heroics, or just the fact that this latest pearl of stupidity that has just erupted from some twisted part of his brother is enough to make him want to rip his own head off and throw it at Dean's. He stands slowly, turning his back on his brother, drains the last bit of liquid from the beer bottle, examines it, turns it over in his hand rubbing his thumb up and down the green tinted glass and then in one motion, spins around hurling it across the room to collide with the door, missing his brother's head by inches. His brother who barely flinches.

The bottle shatters into an unknown number of pieces and Dean shudders as a sense of de ja vu washes over him but otherwise doesn't move, keeps his position staring straight ahead, trying to make the tears in his eyes disappear.

Sam stands there shaking, breath heavy and now also close to tears, a fact Dean notices as he slowly turns his head to look up at him and suddenly he decides he needs to go to him. He slides slowly off the bed watching Sam as he moves towards him and then carefully places a hand on his younger brother's trembling shoulder.

"Easy, bro. Take it easy."

Sam allows him to guide him back to his seat, his head falling into his hands. Dean crouches next to him, both hands now firmly planted on his little brother's upper arms.

"Come on, Sammy."

Sam looks up then eyes still furious but red rimmed and shiny, his voice shaking almost as much as his limbs.

"Why? Tell me why?"

"Because I have to Sam. I have to believe that this will turn out okay for you. How the hell d'you think I keep going, huh?"

Sam shakes his head, staring into his brother's glassy green eyes.

"You stupid bastard...you still don't get it do you? It's not going to be okay, Dean. It'll never be okay. You die and that's it for me. It's OVER! And...I'm sorry if that hurts you I really am, but it's the truth."

He stops to take a breath, a moment to consider the effect this is having on his brother and doesn't have to consider too hard because it's right there staring back at him. Dean drops his head and pushes up to sit on the edge of the bed, still facing Sam but not looking at him.

"I meant what I said Dean. I don't care what it takes I'm gonna beat it if it's the last damn thing I do. I know you're scared but you don't have to be cause I am going to save you because I have to but... but if I can't and you die then I'm gonna spend every second of my miserable life finding a way to get your ass out of Hell and if all else fails then I'm gonna come down there to find you and drag you out of there myself."

Dean swallows the rock in his throat. Hates the feeling of gratitude that overwhelms him, hates the sting in his eyes, hates the burn in his chest and hates the part of him that so badly wants to believe what his brother is telling him. Because none of that had ever mattered and he doesn't want it to start to matter all he wants is for Sam to be okay and the thing that scares him the most is the possibility that he won't be okay. Ever.

Sam shakes his head the anger turning to a deep and encompassing sadness, to suffocating despair and to a debilitating ache for his brother's doomed soul. He drops and crouches down in front of Dean, grabbing a fistful of shirt forcing him to look at him.

"Don't you get it, you prick? Don't you know by now how much you... how much I..."

Dean winces at the pitiful face staring back at him, glances away then back, tries to offer something with a look, tries to think of something to say, but fails on all counts.

Sam lets go of his shirt and looks away suddenly feeling very tired, his tone full of defeat and something else a little like despair.

"You know what. I've had it. You can think what you like. Right now - I'm done."

He pushes to his feet and seems to be trying to shake off the feelings of general crappiness, then nods resolutely as if coming to a conclusion, the change in mood disturbing Dean somewhat.

"I'm going to get us something to eat. Hot dogs sound good to you?"

Dean looks up and nods trying to hide the concern.

"Sure. Why not."

Sam nods again, then disappears without looking back.

When Sam returns he's subdued and miserable and with a face like a slapped ass. Dean tries his best to cheer him up but only gets Sam's bitch face turned on him. Dean watches TV and drinks more beer and Sam flicks through newspapers and books and the slapped ass face remains in place until bedtime although Dean swears if Sam were to open his eyes it would still be there. The next day Sam goes for an early morning walk and doesn't come back.

It's just after midday when Dean lets his anxiety get the better of him and decides to go and look for Sam. He drives around the town, asks around at shops and diners and even the local library until his stomach begs him to take a break. It's two o' clock when he finally tracks him down to a local bar, sat hunched up nursing a tumbler containing a shot of whiskey.

Dean can't help but be worried at the sudden change in his little brother's mood. It disturbs him how he can switch from being determined and furious to miserable and depressed in the space of a few hours. Of course whiskey will help with that but still, it bothers him all the same.

It bothers Sam too. He hasn't failed to notice how frayed his nerves are lately, how short his temper is, how easily he is angered and how that anger can suddenly change to the most crippling sadness and excruciating pain so vivid it's almost physical. Some days he's so sure that they're going to win, beat the deal, win the war send the demons back to Hell and then some days he feels hopeless, useless and a complete failure. He wonders how it's possible to fail at just about everything you try. Every day he wakes up and fights for his brother's soul and he knows he's not just fighting the demons but the crap in Dean's head too and every day he goes to sleep knowing that once again he has failed.

But then another day starts and he can try again, try to get through to his brother, hassle Bobby to try yet more of his contacts, the contacts that he's already tried several times, tries more hopeless searches on the web, makes more pointless phone calls hoping that this one will be it only to be told that there is no hope and all the while knowing that the day will come when it will be too late and his brother will be taken from him. The day will come when he will have to face the fact that he has failed. Failed to save Dean, from the demon who holds his contract and from himself.

And some days when there is no one else left to try a glass of whiskey will help numb the agony and slow down the ever present clock ticking away in his head.

"I tried Dean...where you're going, what you're gonna become. I can't stop it."

And admitting defeat to Dean is the worst kind of failure he knows, knows that letting Dean believe he's given up on him feels the same as putting a gun to his head but whiskey will do that to you too. Whiskey helps but it also doesn't help one bit. In fact it makes it worse. Why should Dean care though because Dean has already decided his fate and Dean has already given up. Dean doesn't care about going to Hell, Dean doesn't care that he's going to die and he realises that you can't fix that kind of personality flaw because there's just too much damage there for anything to be salvaged.

"How can you care so little about yourself? What's wrong with you?"

Dean doesn't get to respond because his phone rings and then as if they don't have enough to deal with they're dealt yet another joyful kick in the jewels.

TBC

I know it sounds like a cliff hanger but it isn't really cause you all know what happens next anyway. I wasn't going to end it here but this chapter went on a bit and the tone changes with the next and final chapter so it seemed right to put in a break here.

Disclaimer: Sam's opinions and beliefs regarding the car do not in anyway reflect the opinions and beliefs of the author. OF COURSE SHE HAS A SOUL DAMMIT.