warning: majorly depressing. and the obvious use of colorful adjectives.
A/N: I'm so sorry it took so very long to update this(as well as Gone), but I've been rather busy with school, some weekend work, and this and that. Trying to focus on Gone was probably the main reason though. writers block has prevented me from getting very far in the now eleven chapter(recently updated!!) fic, and it has been quite hard to bounce back. I'm still a little stuck as a matter of fact. Helpful hints on defeating the horrid disease would be most appreciated.
sidenote: I really love this chapter, but I do believe chapter four will take the cake. This was originally only meant to be three chapters, but sadly, yet happily, it's grown a bit too lengthy for only three chapters. Four should do it though, so be prepare for the final installment because I'm almost positive that the story will not surpass four chapters.
reviewers: deserve the world. thanks so much for all of you input, you guys rock!
also: I apologize for grammatical errors I'm sure are in this. my editor's internet is wonky as of late and I'm correcting on my own, God help me. I get far too excited with my own stories to check properly!

Chapter Three:

There was a gust of cool air as the door swung inwardly to reveal Sam's worn looking father. There was something different about the way he was moving but Sam couldn't put his finger on what. All he could focus on was that even as he shut the door, Dean wasn't there with him.

"Where's Dean?" he pried, keeping his voice soft and neutral as he steadied himself and stood. It was stupid to think something was wrong. They drove separate cars, Dad had gotten back first, and that was all. "Dad," he didn't know why his dad was sitting so quietly with his head in his hands, and he wasn't quite sure he wanted to, "where's Dean?"

He didn't even look up, just shook his head.

Sam felt winded. What was that supposed to mean? It didn't mean what he thought it was meant to mean, though. Shit like that didn't happen. Sam would wait for them to get back, more worried than he'd ever admit, and then they would. They always did. So where was Dean? Dad shaking his head in the negative was not an answer he was willing to accept; was not an answer he was capable of grasping. Sam didn't remember retreating to the wall and sliding to the floor, but as he looked up to catch a glimpse of his dad, he became acutely aware of his position on the dingy carpet and frequent tremors running through his body. It had to mean something different. Dean's lifeless eyes were staring at him and he didn't think he could handle even imagining something so wrong.

"Where –" he couldn't remember thinking what he was saying. He could only see the haunting image of Dean's corpse in his mind. "Dean?"

"He's dead." His dad's voice was little more than a whisper, a hollowed rasp, but loud enough to block out all remaining sounds, thoughts, and meaning.

Sam suddenly couldn't breathe. Dean was tricking them. He would come through that stupid red door with a grin and an innocent shrug and Sam would fucking kill him. That's what would happen. Except it didn't and Sam somehow knew it wouldn't, even if he also knew it would. Everything was starting to spin and he still couldn't breathe. Dean couldn't be dead. A strange buzzing kept him from hearing the short gasps for air that were racking through his body and forcing his chin into his knees, arms clasped around his legs in a mock attempt at comfort. Then there were the tears he couldn't remember crying rolling down his cheeks and dampening his jeans.

He's dead.

Sam pulled his legs tighter, forcing his eyes shut. It wasn't real. It was a nightmare. It was just a twisted dream.

He's dead.

Why wouldn't his dad shut up?

He's dead.

Didn't he know this was just a dream?

He's dead.

Stop saying that. Sam bit his lip desperately. Stop saying that.

He's dead. He's dead. He's dead.

Sam couldn't fight back the sob that ravaged his shaking form. Hundreds of images were racing through his mind as he fought with tightly closed eyes to ward them away. Dean was grinning lazily from a hotel bed and had thrown a bag of chips in his direction without warning before fading into a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV and smaller than ever because he was only twelve years old and had somehow survived a trip to hell and back. Sam heaved through the silent sobs racking his body with a kind of pain he never knew existed. This wasn't happening. Dean's serious face glared back in defiance, clear as day as he suddenly faltered, giving in to Sam's puppy dog eyes with a hesitant smile. Dean couldn't be dead. Dean was rolling his eyes and telling him a bed time story, pretending he wasn't thinking about how they would find a way to pay for rent.

Sam snuggled closer to his brother, eyelids heavy with sleep as he fought to stay awake long enough to see his dad return from his latest hunt. Dean didn't say no or complain about eleven year olds needing space, he just let Sam nuzzle closer to bury his face deep in the folds of his oversized t-shirt, and wrapped his arms around him tight.

"Is he okay?" Sam finally bottled up the courage to ask.

Dean just hugged him tighter; simultaneously tugging the covers over Sam's shivering form. "I'm sure he is, Sammy," Dean finally managed to say. His voice, always so sure and steady, rumbled inside his chest, bringing a tiny smile to Sam's face as he pressed his ear harder into his brother's front, eager for more. Dean laughed at that, making a pleasantly longer rumble come into contact with Sam's intent ears and brining him to a tiny fit of giggles.

Dean ran a hand through his hair. "Dad's fine," he said unblinkingly with a reassuring squeeze.

"What if they come here? What if they find us?" Sam whispered, trying to pretend the darkness of the vacant hotel room didn't bother him in the slightest.

Dean opened his mouth, a look of confusion etched into his features.

"The monsters," Sam whispered more urgently this time, answering Dean's question without another word. He couldn't help but dig his nose closer to Dean, breathing in the same smell his dad sometimes had when they stayed in one place for too long.

Dean smiled a little. "They won't."

"How do you know?" Sam asked miserably.

Dean had a callused hand on the underside of Sam's chin before another monster could plague his brother's mind and tilted his head back gently, allowing Sam a clear view of his unwavering, green eyes. "Because I'm here."

Sam hiccupped through the violent sobs that had somehow remained silent. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to feel. Sam wasn't even sure he knew how to feel anything at all. It was like a hole as vast as space had swallowed his stomach and crept to his chest, settling hot like acid, cold like February, and emptier than words could possibly hope to express. He stared hard at his knees, not even trying to fight the alligator tears streaming down his face, too afraid to close his eyes and meet his brother's lopsided grin of assurance when he knew it wasn't real. Not anymore.

Another sob escape his tightly clamped lips. Dean was dead.

"Distracted."

Sam jumped a little, startled by the disturbance of his father's voice. He tilted his head back, his eyes busy traveling from the tops of his knees to the overpowering presence of his father looming over him. He tried to hold back another sob. He needed his dad more than he'd ever needed anyone in his entire existence.

"He was distracted," John repeated. His voice was wet with accusation, stained with hate.

Sam's mouth moved but fell short as silence greeted his swollen throat. He just stared. His dad wasn't blaming him for Dean, it just sounded that way. Even as he tried to reassure himself, guilt hung over him like a heavy cloud of pain and misery.

"It got him cornered."

Sam looked away, focusing on his knees for comfort. Why was he telling him this?

"It got him caught."

Sam covered his ears, crushing his skull in a sad attempt to block his father's solemn voice. He couldn't breathe. He pressed against his knees, curling into a ball of self-support. He couldn't keep himself from sobbing; couldn't keep his voice from cracking through the pain as he buried his face deeper into the folds of his legs. Dean's face invaded his vision the moment he shut his eyes, slack and void of life.

"Stop," he sobbed, face still buried in his knees, hidden from his father's accusing stare.

"It got him killed."

"Please," he begged, barely able to voice his plea through his uneven breathing and sobs.

"You got him killed."

"No," he gasped, tears stinging his eyes worse than ever. "No." Sam wanted to die. He could hear Dean screaming in protest inside his head, but it didn't matter. Dean was dead. His dad was blaming him for his brother's death and nothing else existed but that solitary accusation. Nothing was more real than the malice in his words and the sound of Sam's heart tearing to pieces beneath layers of skin in his chest. Nothing was more important than the simple fact that Dean Winchester, hunter, protector, big brother extraordinaire, was never coming back. Dean Winchester was dead, and it was all Sam could do to breathe.

Hands were on his collar, yanking him roughly to his feet and pinning him against the wall before he could make sense of the pounding in his ears or the thoughts of death swarming his mind. He winced as his head connected with the sheetrock and let his knees buckle, wishing he would be allowed to slide back to the floor. The hands tightening against his shirt assured him the pleasantry would not be allowed.

"It's your fault!" John breathed against his face, violently shaking Sam by his shoulders.

Sam whimpered, hardly sucking down air through the rough treatment of his body. He shut his eyes, choosing memories of Dean's reassuring face over his father's twisted one. He couldn't help but sob in response.

"If he hadn't been so busy worrying about you," John spat, "fucking distracted by the thought of your sorry ass getting involved, none of this would have happened!"

Sam only sobbed harder, unable to voice a protest against the unbearable charge of damning his brother. He hadn't known. How was he supposed to know that wanting to help would be a distraction? He should have known, though. He knew Dean, didn't he? Of course he would have been distracted by the idea of Sam riding shotgun to get his ass beat by a ghost. If possible, he cried even harder, eyes still shut in hopes of escaping the nightmare he had somehow found himself trapped in. It was his fault Dean was dead and his alone.

John's fists tightened against his shoulders, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the younger Winchester. "It's your fault my boy is dead!"

Sam felt himself disconnect with reality for a moment as his vision swam from the impact of a fist to his upper jaw before he hit the television stand. He moaned in pain as his right shoulder took the brunt of the collision and he slid to a heap to the floor, cradling his injured arm. He blinked in confusion, pain flaring in the left side of his face, toward the towering form of his father staring down at him, a twisted grin distorting his features. Sam swallowed the vomit threatening to escape his throat and struggled to subdue his shudders. This thing wasn't his dad. He should have known the moment he walked in the door, the second he pinned the blame on Sam, and the instant he was physically uprooted from the floor that his dad wasn't with him in the hotel room. He let his thoughts revert to hunter mode, just like he was meticulously trained to do in situations like this. Only this time he didn't have Dean. He didn't even have Dad.

"Where is he?" Sam remained on the floor, leaning against the wooden structure for support. He tried to imagine his dad somehow being alive, but the optimism wouldn't come. There was no possible way his dad would have allowed this thing to live if he was still alive. Sam bit his lip. Dad had to still be alive. He didn't have anyone else. His heart ached more than he thought it could at the idea of being completely alone and it took all of his self control to hold back another breath taking sob.

"Dead," the shapeshifter responded casually.

"No." Sam glared, all too aware of the tears drying in streaks down his face.

"They're dead, kiddo," he repeated, "Not much use denying that."

Sam clenched his left fist, realizing his right was incapable of doing much good at this point. He wondered wearily in the back of this mind whether or not it was dislocated. Every fiber of his being wanted to roll over and pretend it was all a bad dream. Logically, he knew his dad had to be dead. There was no other explanation for why the monster would still be capable of breathing. But that meant Dean was dead too.

"It's a shame," the shapeshifter spoke warily as he drew a knife from his back pocket and Sam didn't miss the crimson staining the tip. "It really was your fault. The kid was easy to sneak up on, slow to react. 'Made the old man a synch to nab. It's never really a good idea to bring your son on a hunt, you know?"

Sam shook his head, never taking his eyes off the thing. His jaw remained clenched, a fiery anger coursing through his veins.

"Kid was begging 'til the end, but the old man bled quick, died slow."

Sam launched himself at the form of his father in a rage and knew it was a mistake before he even felt the fist hammering into his gut. He gasped, winded from the blow, and lost his footing as a second jab weakened his knees. He barely had time to stumble before the sole of a shoe made contact with his chest and forced him to his back. Sam's eyes widened as he managed to focus on his surroundings in time to see the shapeshifter's hands on the towering television stand. He barely had time to raise a weak arm over his head before the wooden unit was tipped in his direction.

---

Dean's knuckles stung as he tightened his grip on the wheel and stole a glance to the passenger seat and the barely conscious form of his father. He bit his lip, pressed harder against the accelerator, and somehow managed to make a turn without flipping the vehicle. He heard John let out a grunt as gravity forced him into the window but didn't let up, couldn't slow down.

"You okay?" Dean voiced his concern. Dad's shoulder was fucked. Bad. His leg wasn't going to be much use to anyone for quite some time, but he had remained conscious long enough to make it to the Impala and had faded in and out of awareness ever since. It was another fifteen minutes to the hotel. Fifteen long minutes that Sam would alone, unprotected, with the son of a bitch who had left his dad to bleed out while he went to finish the last of the Winchesters. Sam could be dead in fifteen minutes.

John grunted, swallowed, and grunted again. "Faster."

Dean had already begun accelerating before the command was out of his father's mouth. He would make it in ten. He blinked nervously, afraid his eyes would betray his overwhelming fear. Would that be fast enough?

"How could we not know?" Dean grit his teeth. "How could we miss something this fucking big?"

"No one ... recorded it, son," his father wheezed.

"We should have known."

John did not respond, just gave an affirmative nod.

"What if –" Dean cut himself short and willed his hands to stay steady. He didn't have time to have a breakdown. Sam's life depended on them making it on time, on fixing their mistake; his mistake. He couldn't hold back the shudder that traveled down his spine as he imagined the alternative and it was almost too much to bear. He wanted... He didn't even want to think about what he wanted. Wanting something he already had implied that it was no longer there, that Sam was already gone. But, God, he wanted his annoying little brother. "What if we don't –"

"We'll make it," Dad's voice attempted to sound reassuring. If Dean had the time to spare he would have really appreciated the lie, but right now all he could do was grate his molars and vent his unease on the gas pedal, praying that they wouldn't die in a crash before reaching his brother. The thought had him easing up ever so slightly, but not enough to really slow them down. "We'll make it."

---

"Damn."

John's voice had Sam's eyes squinting open, his arm still hovering over his head to provide some form of protection from the threat that had yet to come. He swallowed a scream as he opened his eyes to see the doors of the heavy wooden stand inches from his face, bulging with the weight of the television pressing against them. The tip of the stand had hit the bed and successfully prevented its collision with the floor and pinned its door shut. The wooden structure lurched, doors groaning and wood splintering as the mattress sank and the bedspread began slinking toward the floor. Sam rolled, knowing his escape was guarded, and made a run for the bathroom door, ignoring the frightening sound of the television breaking free from the stand and shattering into the carpet.

His hands were fumbling with the lock before he remembered shutting the door, eyes stinging from the sudden darkness as his fingers searched for the switch. Light filled the small room and he was face to face with his own pale, violently shaking reflection. His eyes roamed along the walls; panic spiking as he realized the hopelessness of his situation. He was locked in fucking a bathroom, weaponless, and against someone smart enough to break a simple lock. His hands gripped at his hair feebly as his knees began to buckle.

He wanted his dad, not the thing that looked like him on the other side of the door. And God, he wanted Dean. He withdrew his hands and focused. He was a Winchester, right? He wished his pulse would let up; the sound of it pounding in his ears was too much of a distraction.

A sharp twist of the knob sent a stab of fear through him as he jumped and involuntarily yelped. The twist turned into a loud rasp of knuckles; a thump; a steady pounding. Then the pounding stopped, and that could only mean one thing. He backed up, stumbled over the rug, and let his back ease against the wall. His fingers searched blindly for something, anything, as he kept his eyes fastened to the door, but came up short.

He screamed, unable to contain his fear as a sturdy kick brought the door crashing inwards and a man slouching past. His arms instinctively blocked the first blow, his leg managed to react on its own and connect with his shin before making a swipe for the back of his legs, but he was riding on fear and his father's face was too much to handle. Sam gasped as his head was yanked forcefully back. Before he had time to attempt a struggle he was tugged from his feet, dragged by the hair, as a knee connected with his ribs.

"'Killed your whole family, twerp," John's gravely voice mumbled just before the side of Sam's face met the mirror. He whimpered, unable to suppress the pain as the glass spider webbed away from his temple, cutting into his skin as his head was pressed against the cracking mirror. "You know your mom died over your goddamn crib?"

Sam ceased his meager struggles.

"Didn't think so."

His consciousness lasted just long enough to hear the sound of his head connecting with the marble countertop before everything began to fade into a blissful world of stark nothingness; his last coherent thoughts being of complete failure and an intense loneliness his family could no longer fill.

---

OMG CHAPTER ELEVEN OF GONE IS UP AND AWAITING YOUR REVIEWS!!