A/N: The site is screwing up again, and I had to do some fancy footwork to be able to post this - if there are formatting errors, I apologize.

The werewolf snarled, moonlight glinting off of long, yellowed fangs.

Dean stood rooted, trapped, directly in the beast's path. He knew that if he were to move, the werewolf would attack. And yet, if he stood still, he was equally screwed.

"Come and get me, mother fucker…" he mumbled, more to convince himself that he wasn't scared than to challenge the monster. The creature dropped closer to the ground in a crouch, and Dean had time to think - here it comes – before it launched itself. He squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation, bracing for pain and death.

There was an impact, a tearing in his side, but it wasn't simplythe claws and tearing teeth he'd been expecting – it was warm, solid, familiar – and as a gunshot exploded painfully close by, he opened his eyes.

Sam had thrown him clear of the attack, firing as the werewolf flew at him.

Dean opened his eyes in time to see the gnashing teeth close on his brother's chest, claws tearing at him as he screamed in agony.

"Sammy!"

His brother gave a terrible, rattling gasp and went limp under the creature, which howled in rage and turned to flee. It staggered, limping, and Dean knew that Sam had dealt it a fatal wound.

He crawled to his brother, his mind screaming no, no, no, no, no as he took in the impossible amount of blood soaking Sam's torso.

"Sammy," he repeated, pulling Sam's head into his lap. "Oh, God…"

Dean could see his little brother's ribs in the wide wound, splintered fragments of white bone peppering his torn flesh as blood sluiced down his side.

Sam gasped again, his eyes going wide as they locked onto Dean's face, and he tried to speak. Dark blood spilled over his lips and he coughed weakly.

"Come on, Sam," Dean pleaded, pressing down on Sam's chest. He felt bones shift under his palm and Sam moaned piteously. "Please!"

"S'rry…" Sam rasped, his voice thick and labored. He made a choking sound in his throat, twitching weakly in Dean's lap, and his eyes slid lifelessly to stare at nothing.

Dean felt his brother's chest still under his hand, felt the world implode into a meaningless nothing as his brother died in his arms.

Dean opened his eyes to a white hospital room, moaning as memory hit him.

Sam was dead.

Grief filled him like lead, and he was sure that his heart would not be able to move blood so heavy with loss. But the maddening thump, thump, thump continued in his chest, each beat a spiteful reminder that he was still alive.

An image drifted to the forefront of his mind – Sam staring down at him, luminous wings spread out behind him, and a bitter, hysterical laugh bubbled up within him.

He had obviously lost his mind.

A noise at the door alerted him to the presence of a doctor, and he stared blankly at the man's sickeningly sympathetic face.

"Mr. Jones," the man said gently, and Dean foggily recalled having that ID in his pocket. He didn't respond. Couldn't think of a single reason why he should bother with anything.

The man cleared his throat and stepped further into the room, glancing down at a chart in his hands.

"You're doing very well, Mr. Jones. The wound to your side was deep but nothing vital was injured. You're going to survive."

Survive. Not live. He was done living, no matter what his body thought. He vaguely recalled bleeding, realizing that he had not completely escaped harm. Hoping that he would die.

"We found the wolf that attacked you, dead, and we're running some tests to be sure that it didn't have rabies."

He paused, seemingly expecting Dean to say something.

"My brother," he said softly, "He's dead."

"Yes," the doctor said sadly, "I'm very sorry, Mr. Jones. He was dead when you were found. There were massive internal injuries. There was nothing you could have done."

Except die for him. Except not let him sacrifice himself for me.

Dean rolled away from the pitying expression on the doctor's face, staring at the wall. He heardhim leave, not caring but still aware, and sighed.

There was a gentle movement to his left, and when he turned his head, Sam was standing at the foot of his bed.

Dean laughed again, sounding insane to his own ears.

"So it's gonna be like this, I guess," he said conversationally to the hallucination. "I'm fucking crazy."

Sam tilted his head sadly, wings stretching and retracting slightly. They glowed under the hospital lights, stretching up over his brother's head, the wingfeathers trailing on the bland linoleum.

"Never saw you as a wing kinda guy, Sammy," he said bitterly to the apparition. "Don't know why I'm imagining you like this…"

Sam was dressed in his favorite jeans and dark blue shirt, looking for all the world like he always had – with the glaring exception of the wings that framed him. He blinked silently at Dean, extending a hand in a pleading gesture.

"You aren't real," Dean insisted, pain clenching at his heart. "Not anymore…"

Sam's wings slumped slightly, the tips bending against the floor. His face was full of a terrible, sad wisdom, but he smiled gently at Dean.

Dean felt the impact of it like a punch to his gut – a painful echo of the smiles he would never see again outside of grief-induced hallucinations.

"Go away," he said brokenly, squeezing his eyes shut against his brother's face.

He counted to ten silently, listening to his traitorous heart beating strongly.

When he opened his eyes again, Sam was gone.

It shouldn't have hurt as badly as losing Sam the first time.

But it did.

A/N: Next part soon... if I can crawl out of the depression writing this fic puts me in!