The boy found himself in an abandoned town, litter strewn across the rain-slickened pavement. Boarded-up shops surrounded him, street lamps flickering. An arbitrary neon sign hanging limply outside of a dilapidated diner glared oppressively at him, the pure intensity of its stare boring into his skull. There didn't seem to be any sort of organised direction to the road down which he stumbled, only silent chaos. He wandered around, endlessly searching for his missing brother. Every time he called out for him, his voice conveniently ceased to work; in fact, all of his senses had neglected him, causing him to be utterly disorientated. The only thought in his mind was that he had to find his brother. That was all that mattered.

Staggering around the street corner into a darkened backstreet, he found himself in front of the back entrance of a church. An odd sound, extremely out of place, emanated from inside the door, which was hanging open, its hinges completely busted. It was a wailing of sorts, but not quite as extreme – more like pained groaning. It was as if someone was dying in there. His feet began moving forward of their own accord, almost as if he were in a trance. He was well aware that what he was moving towards was likely something he didn't want to see; the gripping sensation in his stomach told him as much. However, he couldn't stop it. His curiosity and inability to control his movement had taken hold.

As he approached the front of the church, he still hadn't spotted anything perturbing. However, his tunnel vision had prevented him from seeing most of the church, therefore he decided to backtrack. His head whipped from side to side, reflecting his hasty glances between the pews. When he was around halfway down the aisle, a huddled figure caught his eye. It was clearly that what was emitting the excruciating noise.

Hesitantly advancing towards the man (it was now evident that was who it was), he nudged him slightly, coaxing him from his foetal position. To his horror, when the man rolled over, it was revealed to be his brother. Sam Winchester lay in his brother's shocked arms, a deep wound drawn in red across his stomach; however, the actual injury couldn't be seen, only the crimson seeping through onto his t-shirt. The flower of blood expanded, blooming into thrice the size of a rose.

"No… No." Dean muttered in disbelief, his hand firmly affixed to his brother's face in an attempt to comfort him in what were evidently his last moments. Sam himself was unable to speak to his brother, aside from moaning in agony, yet his eyes revealed everything – fear, betrayal, colossal pain. Just when Dean felt his brother's life slip away, another familiar voice called to him.

"It's your fault, Dean… You were supposed to save him, and you can't even do that…"

Dean's eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright, smothered in sweat and gasping for breath as if he hadn't inhaled in a few minutes, which he probably hadn't while he was dreaming. It took a moment for him to get his bearings, but when he did, he realised he was back in Bobby's spare bedroom again. He was currently sat on top of the sheets and quilt, yet a severely twisted blanket was wrapped around his legs; Dean assumed someone had placed it there while he was sleeping. Which posed the question: why had he been sleeping? When he checked the clock, it was around 4:30pm, so he wouldn't normally be resting at that time, or any time, for that matter. Then, rather abruptly, his recent memories came flooding back; discovering that Cas was unable to help him, John following him in the car lot outside, freaking out, and then… Sam. He'd punched him to knock him out of his psychotic episode, clearly. I'll get him back for that, Dean thought, yet it was a half-hearted threat – he knew he was in too much of a bad state, plus he never intentionally punched Sam. Except for when he took the Impala, or was generally out of control.

For a moment, Dean thought his nightmare was simply the aftermath of his insanity, that his… episode… outside earlier had been the pivotal moment to rid him of his hallucinations. However, it wasn't long before he saw John again, standing in the corner of the room and speaking.

"Well would you look at that! Sleeping Beauty is finally awake. Now, shall we continue our conversation? I believe your overactive mind woke you up so I couldn't talk to you in your dreams anymore – but it's much more fun out here anyway." The most intense sinking feeling was produced in Dean's stomach as he realised there was no getting away from this. John carried on regardless, clearly loving the sound of his own voice. "The thing is, we need to talk about Sammy. I don't know if you remember, but before I died – which I still blame you for, by the way – I told you that you had to save Sam, or you'd have to kill him. And it sure doesn't look like you've saved him to me."

"Wha… What are you talking about?" Dean asked, exhausted and sick of John talking. He figured that if he spoke back, maybe he'd shut up a little sooner. It was a logical plan, but at the time, Dean had no idea that it was the worst thing he could have possibly done. However, it was the only way he was to react, since he was tired, and also curious about what his dad had to say about Sam.

"He's still drinking gallons of demon blood. You're seriously telling me you haven't noticed?" John went on, his tone extremely patronising, just like when he was a spirit, or even when he was alive at times.

"Yes, I've noticed! You son of a-"

"Watch your tone with me, boy." John's voice suddenly got much darker as he appeared right in front of Dean, looming over him with a glare that could kill a child on sight. "We wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for you. If you'd have saved him, things could have been just fine. I probably wouldn't have come back as a vengeful spirit- well, okay, yes I might have, but definitely not as angry. Then you'd have no hallucinations either. But no. You had to screw things up, like the pathetic child you are."

"If I can find a way to save him, then I will but-"

"I don't think you understand me." John interrupted once again. "There's no saving your brother now. He's gone far past being saved." As those words sunk in, Dean's feeling of dread became somewhat more profound. He still believed that Sam could redeem himself, kick the demon blood. They would just have to find another way. But when John spoke with such finality, he knew exactly what he was implying, if he was still going by what he said before. However, he asked anyway.

"What do you mean?" Dean's voice shook with anticipation and anxiety. He knew what was coming next.

"You know how it goes. If you can't save him, which you can't…"

"No." Dean realised he wasn't ready to hear it. Despite having heard many vile and terrible things spew out of his father's mouth, this was one he just wasn't ever going to be ready to hear. Tasting his son's denial and fear, John smiled slightly and changed his choice of words.

"You might not think it, but it's something you're gonna have to do. And I think you'd prefer it sooner rather than later, when he's tried to kill you himself."