Ladies (and gentlemen?)! The moment you have been waiting for...the showdown. Review, and let me know what you think. As always, all reviews answered at my blog. And these boys ain't mine. Oh God, I wish they were mine. Rrrrrr.

Dean didn't so much drift back to consciousness as explode into it. One minute there was nothing, the next there were sounds, and smells, and touches. The most important thing was that there was pain, which meant he was alive. There was a throbbing burn in his stomach, accompanied by the sensation of someone tugging at his skin.

And then he heard Sam's voice. Fucking praise be, his brother was here. He forced his eyes open and a fuzzy image swam into focus. Sam was bending over him, staring at his stomach, talking with a stranger in a low voice.

Dean tried to speak but his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. He pried it loose, grimacing slowly, and tried again. "S…Sam." His voice was raspy, barely more than a whisper, roughened from the trauma of the breathing tube.

Sam started, turned to stare at him. He didn't speak for a second, just looked at Dean with huge, deer-in-the-headlight eyes, then cried out, "Jack!"

Unless he was having some sort of identity crisis, Dean figured that Sam had them going incognito, so he didn't reply, just blinked. He smacked his mouth a little, now aware of the rancid taste of unconsciousness, and muttered, "Water."

The stranger next to Sam pushed backward on his stool, skidding across the room. In his absence, Sam leaned over Dean and whispered in his ear, "You're Jack Fish. I'm your brother Jason. You're here because you stabbed yourself."

"…the hell?" Dean blinked again, brow furrowing. "What's…going on?"

Before Sam could speak the stranger was back, a plastic cup of water in his hand. Sam snatched it and placed a hand under Dean's neck. He lifted Dean's head up so he could sip from the cup, the water cold and sweet in Dean's mouth. He tried to gulp it greedily, but the stranger stopped him. "Slowly. Not too much." The stranger, who was wearing a white coat and a nametag that said Montgomery, took the water away, and Dean wanted to punch him right in his pudgy little face.

Pudge-Montgomery touched Dean on the abdomen again, apparently inspecting his work, then smoothed a large adhesive bandage onto the skin. "Buzz if you need anything," he said to Sam, ignoring Dean entirely, which chalked up another punch that Dean owed him.

Sam pulled up Montgomery's stool and sat, staring at Dean with dewy eyes, which immediately irritated Dean. It was all he could do not to roll his own eyes, so he went the sarcastic strongman route. "Some Reaper must…have a real hard-on for me."

Sam shook his head with that incredulous, crinkled-up face that he always made when annoyed with Dean. "That's all you have to say?"

"What do you…want me to say, Sam?" Breathing hurt, a fiery burn in his gut, and his words caught in his chest as he spoke.

"I'd never abandon you, Dean. I'd never run off and leave you behind." Sam's voice rose in pitch, a little hysterical.

"Tell…me how you met…Meg, again?" retorted Dean, on the defensive, trying to distract Sam from the obvious point of the conversation.

"That's not the same, and you know it!" The hurt on Sam's face was more than Dean could take now, and he shut his eyes, willing his brother to take a breath and see things from his perspective. "You left me without a word, without any idea of where you were or if you were okay! You did to me what dad did to you! You remember how you felt when he went missing and you were all alone?"

Now that hurt. Dean opened his eyes again and stared daggers at Sam, hackles rising. No more Mister Nice-Dean. No more mincing words, no more protecting Sam's feelings. "You remember how you…felt when Jessica…died?" he ground out. Sam's mouth dropped open. "How it feels to…have someone die for you?"

"You asshole…"

"Do you know how many people have died for me, Sam?" Dean's voice grew in strength along with his anger. "Dad…Layla…Marshall Hall…"

"Stop it!" Sam's shout rolled like thunder, his face enraged. "For once in your life, shut your fucking mouth and listen to me!" Dean's eyes widened and he stared at his brother, mouth agape. Sam glanced back toward the door and lowered his voice to a hiss. "You're a selfish son-of-a-bitch. You didn't even give a thought to how it would make me feel if you sacrificed yourself and I didn't try to save you. You act like it wouldn't hurt me more than it hurt when Jessica died. You think I would just pick everything up and go back to Stanford, and live my life like you never existed?"

Dean clenched his hands in his lap. "Sammy." His voice, already low and rough from the breathing tube, was almost inaudible. "The only thing I've ever brought you is trouble. How do you think the demon found you at Stanford? He followed me there. It's my fault that your girlfriend died. It's my fault that you're not away at school, and that you even got caught up in all this in the first place. If I had just gone to find Dad on my own, instead of dragging you along, we wouldn't be in this situation."

"Dean."

"So you're right. I am selfish. And I'm just trying to put everything right, Sam."

Sam stopped Dean by grabbing his wrist with a vice-like grip. "There's nothing to put right, Dean." Dean did not reply, just stared at him with eyes full of sadness, hopelessness. "I won't give you up for anything. Not even getting Jessica back, or dad, or mom. You're my brother, and nothing you have done or ever could do is going to change that. And I'm not gonna sit back and let you die."

A tear wobbled on Dean's eyelashes, but he refused to give in to it, steeling his jaw and blinking it away. He heaved out a heavy breath, ignoring the stab of pain it brought. "I'm tired, Sam. I don't want to do this anymore."

"I won't let you do it, Dean. I won't let you play God with my life. Or yours." Sam released his grip on Dean's wrist and he scrubbed a hand across his own face. "We'll find a way. We will." He ducked his head, caught Dean's gaze with his own. "But no more running away from it."

Dean looked back at him, his fatigue, pain and sorrow showing in the set of his mouth. "I shouldn't even be here, Sammy." His voice trembled and his chin puckered slightly. "I'm just so tired. I should have died when my heart gave out. But Marshall and Layla died for me. I should have died after the car accident. But Dad died for me. I don't think I can do it again. I don't want to do it again."

Sam dropped his chin and shook his head slightly, brow furrowed with pain of his own. "You won't have to, Dean." He wanted so much to take Dean's hand, show him that he was still there, still alive, and not going anywhere. But it was Dean. And Dean didn't hold hands. "We're going to find a way. We will."

Dean turned his face away from Sam, biting his lower lip to stop it quivering. "I hope you're right, Sam."

And the two brothers sat together, unable to say all the words that still needed to be said.