Disclaimer: blah blah blah, I don't own them, blah blah blah. oooo, but if I did...

Dean sat by his window, hands limp in his lap. The wheelchair squeaked slightly as he adjusted himself in the seat. It had been 24 hours since his father had left him. 24 hours since he found out his brother was dead. No, don't think that yet. He had spoken to the doctors, convincing them his freaking out in the ER was just something like momentary insanity. A combination of the accident and the news of his brother was just too much at once. Doctors are so stupid. He had been lucid… just really pissed off.

They had said something about "bad back injury" and "eventual physical therapy". Now he was stuck in a frickin' wheelchair until his back healed. The anger flared up once again in his chest. I shouldn't be here.

Hearing a cough behind him, he turned his head to find a man in police uniform in the doorway. He was tall, all business. He carried a large black duffle bag that looked strangely familiar.

"Dean Winchester?" Dean stared. The officer took it as a yes. "I'm Officer McGlough. I've been investigating the accident involving the truck driver and yourself."

And Sam. Dean turned his wheelchair a bit more toward the officer. He placed his hands back into his lap.

"Yeah, ummm… how is he?" he asked stupidly, unable to think of anything else to say, much less anything concerning that last thought echoing in his mind.

"He's fine, just a concussion." Dean nodded. Lucky bastard. "I'm aware your brother was in the crash and didn't survive." The officer said gently, lowering himself into a nearby chair.

Dean lowered his eyes, not wanting to let the officer see the tears begin to fill his eyes. I can't deal with this right now. This is too much.

"It was my fault."

"I'm sorry?" Dean looked up. A tear finally breaking away from his eye and made its way down his cheek.

"The accident was my fault, officer. We… I had been drinking. I didn't think I was… impaired." Dean stared at the officer, certain he would start spewing him his rights and slap some cuffs on him for his brother's murder at any moment. I am a murderer.

"Son, I don't think you understand. We've already closed the investigation." The man sighed in almost a fake concerned way. "The truck driver told us he fell asleep at the wheel. He woke up just before running a red light and hitting you."

Dean swallowed the lump in this throat, trying to understand the words he had just heard. "He was… I didn't…"

The officer smiled grimly. "And your blood alcohol was tested when you came in… Standard procedure. You were under the limit." He stood, his business finish. "I just thought… I thought you would want closure… for your brother."

Dean nodded, feeling numb from the shock. He saw the bag the officer had been holding being placed on his bed. He finally recognized it.

"There were things we recovered from the car. This is it, I'm afraid." Instinct kicked in and Dean's mind began to race. Can't be the weapons… unless this cop is buckets of crazy. A half-grin flashed across his lips. Dad. Dean nodded and turned his chair, looking the officer in the eye for the first time.

"Thanks." The officer nodded and walked out, leaving Dean to his thoughts and grief.

Dean stared at the bag, looming on his bed like a black mark of pain and failure. He lifted his hands, prepared to wheel over to the bed. Not yet.

Dean flipped on his phone and dialed his father's number. The rings pierced his brain, but still he waited, not knowing what he was going to say. His breath caught as he heard a click, followed by his father's voice.

"Dean."

"Dad." His voice caught.

"Dean, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you." Dean nodded, afraid to open his mouth for fear of letting out the sob of grief growing in his chest. He could hear his father sigh.

"I talked to the police. Dean… I… I was wrong to act like that. I am so sorry. I just couldn't…"

Dean sat, trying to absorb what was just said. The silence held for a few seconds.

"Dean?"

Finally, he found his voice. "Dad, where are you?"

Silence. "I'm… uhhh… I'm at the morgue." Dean closed his eyes, wishing he could take the question back. "I had to… id and… claim Sammy's… body." Dean nodded, silently thankful he was wheelchair bound so he couldn't do that particular task.

"I'll… I'll talk to you later, Dad. We have to… make arrangements."

"Alright. I'll see you soon Dean. Bye."

He clicked the phone shut, his mind finally catching up to what he just said. I should tell Sam's friends. Should I call? Who… I don't even know who they would be. He realized dimly. I don't know what he would want. We never talked about this. Dean silently cursed himself. Like I would ever have let him talk about it.

Dean looked back at his bed. The bag loomed. Bitch bag think it can scare me. If you weren't a just bag, I'd kick your ass. Oh fuck it.

He turned the chair, thrusting it toward the bed, coming close to slamming his knees into the side. He grabbed the bag with his good wrist and threw it onto a chair, making it be waist high and to stop its stupid threats. He ripped open the zipper, revealing the other survivors of the crash. Dean stared, the anger suddenly deflating at the sight. Slowly, he reached in a grabbed the first thing to touch his hand. A shirt. Sammy's. A smile tugged on his lip corner as he saw the few blood drops and tears on the hem. Which one of our battles ruined this shirt, little brother? He pulled the fabric to his face, closing his eyes. The faint sweet smell of his brother filled his senses. Vanilla with a slight dusty library, almost like old leather bound books. It fit him. It was him. A memory flooded his mind.

"Come on Sam!" Dean pulled his four year old brother by the hand.

"No! I don't wanna!" Sam pulled back, trying desperately to stay in the bathtub.

"Sam, your bath is over. The water's cold and you're all wrinkled." Sam looked at his hands and started laughing.

"Deanie, my skin looks funny." Dean used the distraction as the moment to pull his little brother up and out of the tub. He started rubbing him dry with a towel. He would never admit it, but he loved bath-time with Sammy. It was relaxing, in a brotherly bonding kind of way. It was routine, but nothing as strict as training. It was… normal.

"You always look funny, Sammy. I just didn't want to say anything." Before Sam could run down the hall butt naked like he always tried to do, Dean wrapped his brother in the towel, locking his arms next to his body. He tucked the towel corner into itself, sealing the wrap. Sam look up at his brother, laughing. "There we go. Now you're a sausage."

"You're funny Dean-bean."

"Yeah, I know Sam-bam." Dean grabbed his brother, throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes as Sam squealed with glee.

Dean shivered, suddenly chilled. This was definitely not what he wanted to be thinking about right now; his little brother who could be remember as a child, but would never be as an old man.

"I'm so sorry." Dean whispered to the empty room.

"You should be." Wait. Empty rooms don't talk. Dean whipped his head up. Their eyes met. He stood not two feet away from Dean's chair. Dean's eyes widened. Sam.

"Boo."

……………………………………...

Hope you liked it! I thought making Dean responsible for Sam's death was a bit harsh… he's in enough pain.:) The memory flashback is an actualone of mine (my little sister and I are also 4 years apart) and I thought it would be sweet in a sad way. The next chapter is written, just touching it up. Be patient… it's worth it. Please R&R cause it keeps me inspired!