Author's note: All characters belong to Eric Kripke. Slightly OC. thanks to those who reviewed / set up author / story alerts. my e-mail was full of people setting those things up! Awesome! So again, thanks! I'm still watching season four, and already, I can see a bunch of things I wanna change in my current story. So originally, I had given Dean his own little chapter. He still has it... just... now it's cut in half. x D Jo's intro will be next time, too. (I know, I know. I said that last time!) Enjoy!

***Special thanks to my new beta, kenny, who knows when to say no to a crazy idea.

"Look, Dean, the way I see it... your checkin' out in a couple months, right? So if I'm gonna make it.. gonna fight this war on my own.. I gotta change."

"Into what? Me?"

"Something like you." --Winchester brothers. Season three.

"Sammy."

It's one word, with an endless meaning.

He's always known his brother had this manipulative influence on him though, ever since they were kids. Heck, any idiot with a set of eyes could see that much. But it wasn't his fault. God, no. It was all because of that damned nickname, he swears it. Whenever Dean spoke the word, everything seemed to pause. Stop on it's tilt. The air would grow palpable, like a small, audio-produced smile. The husky pitch would curl around each letter like a music note, twisting it until it was something else entirely. Something breaching the world of religion, and leaving him speechless. It was beautiful, almost. Though when anyone else said it.. Sam knew there'd always been this edge that was so revolting, he could barely stand the sight of them for days afterward. They reminded him too much of the chubby faced twelve year old he use to be, and Sam didn't want to go back there. Not to the time when his eyes opened to the world around him. Really opened, he means. It was bad enough the first time around.

"Come on, Sammy-boy. Time to rise and shine!"

When he said it, Sam felt all his guilt and self doubt vanish. It was concerning, but familiar.

It was home.

And no one else they knew could say it like him. Not even remotely. Not his father, Bobby, or Jess. There was just a presence in the word, and none of them seemed to be built for what it took. It was all wrong, like they weren't meant to speak it. Weren't allowed. All his life, he'd tried to find a way out of that. Took his brother for granted, really, and wanted to know that when he left him behind for academics.. there'd be someone else like him. But even then, Sam remembers he'd been weary in his search. Would he be able to look at Dean the same, if he did find someone? Would his brother ever look at him the same? Eventually, he decided to just give up. By then, the simple phrase had taken on a new meaning whenever it beckoned him. It meant safety, protection. The perfect expression would always draw onto Dean's face when he said it, too, with teeth flashing, lips quirking. Like he just knew...

It was his.

It was an unspoken bond. Something Sam never mentioned when Dean was alive, and vice versa. Hell, to them, it probably didn't count as much as their daily drabbles of 'jerk' vs. 'bitch'. But it was there. Allowing him to feel that side of his big brother no one knew. That no one else got to see. The Dean that hated himself so much he was just begging for someone to pick him up again, if only for a little while. Sam missed that word, missed it so much he thought about it all day long.. and evidentially, even in his sleep. He pondered the slight accent in Dean's tone that would make him falter, make it more memorable. Like he felt the wonder of knowing he possessed the only thing Sam had left to offer. There'd been a rasping quality that made his voice unique and gave the word a roughness, a raw trait that he admired, that none could forget.

''...Hey, hun. You hearin' me?"

Sam shifted, his eyes bleary as the image of Dean withered in sleep, faded from memory into one of something different. Someone new and not Dean.

"I finished breakfast. Come 'nd eat somethin'."

Ellen leaned through the doorway, her gaze vigilant, and her smile a bit too tight. Sam peered at her from beneath the lump of pillow, nodding silently. Anything to get away. Anything to stop thinking about-

"Well, come on then! Get a move on!"

Her hands waved him outward, forcing him to drag his feet from bed like a puppet to it's puppeteer. His shoulders grew invisible knots, and slowly, Sam began to shift awkwardly beneath the daily burden they carried. Among other things, he wished for a silent reprive from all that weight, but never recieved any. Not even an acknowledgment. He staggard around for his bag then, pulling a shirt out to cover himself as Ellen left. He began muttering things to console someone who wasn't there, almost as a reflex, but ignored the reasoning behind it. His footsteps were heavy and traitorous, prying his attention to the cold floor as he hissed at bare toes, slowly ebbing a numb chill.

Sam rubbed his hands together, moving through the old house. Unwillingly, he imagined Dean in all his incarnations; a stubborn six year old chasing after his father's figure through the hall, a gangly preteen, with more freckles than Sam could count in a day making paper airplanes from Bobby's old books, and finally, Dean as he left teenage-dom, brawny and so full of life, grease smudged and eager to please.

It's all my fault.

Sam leaned back and clumsily wiped away the oncoming heat rushing to his face; he could recall all the times he'd skinned his knees or hurt himself when they were very, very little. He'd always cry as if it were the worst thing in the world, and Dean'd always tell him to stop being such a baby... but it never worked. Not until Dean would wipe away his sadness, as Sam had to do for himself, now. Sam could remember Dean doing it for him more times than he wanted to admit, though Dean never cried for him to return the favor. Like so much else. But one of them had to be strong. Daddy dearest taught them that. If nothing else, he taught them that. Sam doubted any amount of strength or misery was going to change things now. Nothing was going to get better. But still, he stalked through the house, watching as the walls changed from green to amber, finally morphing into a muggy white, with patches of wallpaper hanging in random places. The heat of the kitchen hit him full on, easily enough, leading Sam to the few chairs by the table. Paper littered it's surface, but a placemat had been put upon the mess, conveniently organized with a sunny-colored cup, and a fork.

Feeling as selfish as he did the day Dean died, he scoffed at the attempt of someone being courteous. Most likely Ellen.

"Well, it took you long enough!"

Looking sidelong, Sam stared straight at the only mother-figure he'd known. Her hands were clasped around a paisly platter, which he quickly realized was dented and scratched up in a few places. Wonder how many times that's been used for stitching someone up. She floated toward him, that too-tight smile still on her face, and set the platter on his mat. And just when he thought she might leave again.. go find someone else to bother, she sat down, and started pointing at the ingenious blobs before him.

"That right there? It's my special pancake. Be ready for it, hun. It'll kick your ass right into gear."

She was going out of her way to make him feel welcome. He didn't like it. Nor, did he understand. Why, exactly, was she doing this? What had he done to deserve it? He'd killed his brother. She should know that. About as well as she knew the sky was blue.

"Thank you."

"Sure, sure!"

Her tone was pleasent, but fake. Sam picked up the fork, dropping his gaze to the food before him. If you could even call it that. Black smoothed over the edge of the pancakes, and a couple of bits of bacon lay beside it... way too pink. Still, he managed to cut bits off, eating as robotically as he did every day- his elbows never touching the table, his posture rigid, his expression empty. It was like he'd begun spacing out, but remaining grounded at the same time. Ellen folded her hands in front of her, intent to just stare at him. It was only after his third or so bite, that she sighed, and slouched backward, letting her legs stretch out beneath the table, nudging Sam.

"Jo's not here."

The admittance had Sam slowing for a moment, obviously confused, before he started eating again. No reply would be admitted from him. There never was. His brother may have passed the whole touchy-feely part of their relationship to him once upon a time, but now, Sam rejected it. Among other things, he'd lost the ability.

"... She's gone out for a couple hours. Something about meeting with friends."

Ellen shrugged, her hair sliding from her shoulder in a nonchalant manner. It seemed she was totally fine with talking to herself, so long as she knew that Sam was there. She'd been so worried about him lately, it didn't seem right.

"I think she's met a boy. Poor son'ofabitch."

This had Ellen pursing her lips. Sam kept his attention trained on the pancakes, his mind sifting through an arrangement of soft-hearted words. Things Dean might say, had he been presented with this moment. Like, 'no shit? You tell her she can get pregnant from kissing?' Or maybe.. 'I'll meet you in the impala, Sammy! We gotta go find her.' Not that Ellen would hear. No one ever would. Because as quickly as he thought of the words, he forgot them. Opting to cram another bit of bacon into his mouth.

"How're your pancakes?"

Silence. Sam took the brunt force of her gaze, then nodded weakly. He always did, when pressured to speak. Otherwise, the old woman might hit him over the head for being so rude. Her past with Dean should be proof enough for that. Poor guy always got slapped, or shot at, when she was around.

''.... my mouth tastes like ass.''

The air grew tense, and for a moment, Sam couldn't believe the words had escaped him. After all, hadn't he just remembered Dean getting beat?He waited then, waited for the resounding smack. His fork clattered to the plate, and his eyes dimmed.

But it never came.

Instead, her smile grew tighter, a little more drawn out, and Sam could see she was trying to rewire what he'd said. It was only then, that he also seemed to spot how dark her eyes were, how the bags underneath them drew more wrinkles. Like she felt utterly defeated, but didn't want to admit it.

''Good to hear, hun'. Tomorow, you'll have to try some eggs.'' She was moving. Getting up from her seat, and rushing over to the sink. She had a sponge sitting on it's faucet, something Sam wrote off as a bad sign for Bobby. Cleaning supplies sat in a bucket not far from the sponge, darkening his thought. Things fell silent, and Sam ressumed eating. Ellen didn't try to talk, didn't try to make him feel a little less guilty about anything. Just picked up her sponge, and started gutting out the grime.

Stupid Bobby.
This had to be his fault. Him and his stupid inability to clean or cook for other people.

Three months in hell: Thirty years of torture.

Jesus, holy mother of fucking Christ.

"Dean."

Green optics tried to focus in on the image before him, catching nothing more than a blurry figure that seemed eerily familiar, yet undistinguishable at the same time. Blood is everywhere, scabbing over in a few places from where demons had tormented him... toyed with him... or generally fucked with his head to the point of self mutilation. Pain was a common thing amongst all the blood, now that endorphins were no longer in the picture. Evidentially, when you die, so does the pain relief. Either that, or hell was the biggest bitch in the universe.

"Dean!"

A weary smile, crawled across his lips. It's not of his own doing. That voice was so full of sanctified release, he can't help reciprocating the feeling. Even if he knew he didn't deserve it. To smile. Be happy. Then again, he'd never really deserved it in the first place. Wasn't that right, John? He'd drilled that into his head so long ago... Dean was beginning to get a bit fuzzy on everything else.

"There you are."

Sam's voice fades out through the static inside Dean's head. Everything swims red and orange, the space itself lost in the haze of hell.

"S.....sa-" A pause. Dean chokes on the sound, feeling like he's about to die, even when he knows he can't. Even though he wants to. God, he wants it to end so badly. To the point he sometimes believed he'd be willing to let other souls take his place.

"...Sh, sh. You shouldn't try to talk."

It takes him a moment to realize the voice had gone cold. His brother's voice. Dean's flinching back from where he's been restrained, clearly surprised. He watches the illusion of Sam come strolling toward him-- smiling. And suddenly, he feels scared. Of his own family. The boy he raised. Protected with his life!

"It took a while to find you," it muses, eyes gleaming. "But I guess that's to be expected. The longest egg-hunts always end up with the best candy inside. Right? I'm just glad Alistair is in a sharing mood." Dean feels the cold brush of Sam's hand along his cheek. A mock caress. Dean admits to his stomach churning, threatening to spew whats left of his insides onto the ground. Whether this thing wanted to torture him or just play with his head the Winchester wasn't quite sure, but the thought of Sam itself reaches into him and burns. Deeper than any other injury he's received in the past. Words slowly begin to form against his lips, rising to an almost unbearable level as his baby brother prattles. "It's amazing, you know? Your like a secret jewel in the middle of this pit. 'The last hope' they called you. Ha! What a joke!" The thing plops down in front of him, allowing Dean the chance to look at him better. God, he looks just the same. With all things considered, I mean. And secretly? Dean relishes in that. He never wanted to imagine Sam changing. Even when he died. He'd always liked him the way he was. Mopey, and stubborn.

His hair is too long though. Was it always like that? It's the one thing that gets him. Dean gapes at the mussed look of it, frazzled with dirt like he'd just got off from a... uh... shit. What was it they did again? H.... huh... something. "Who would'a thought your death would'a did it! Everyone's celebrating. Well... most of us. Sa- I mean, I was close to breaking for such a long time. Like a ghost in my own head. Pathetic, really."

Dean lolls toward the creature, eyes moistening as he tries to understand any difference between his Sammy and this impostor. There's nothing. Nothing but a faint twinkle in Sam's eye that had never been there before. One that Dean had seen far too many times with Alistair. God, could this really be him? Somehow? The man keeps going, talking about something he doesn't really comprehend. No... it can't be. All this time, Sam acts like Dean's not tattered and broken. Not flopped in a useless heap on the floor, wishing everything would just end already. He knows it can't be Sam. But all the same.. Dean starts wishing it was.

Sam, Sammy! God... Why doesn't he help me? Dean thinks. If he's pretending to be Sam.. he should know he promised he'd... fuck. What... what did he promise again?

"…n-not..." he grounds out finally, studying the being as it stills in a tirade of laughter, looking down at him curiously. "...s-s....my."

The corners of it's lips turn upward, finding humor in the pitiful declaration before him. It's nothing but a last broach at seeming defiant. They'd broken this Winchester a long time ago. No use for him left. Dean could be scattering ash if he wanted him to be right now. And yet.. something about that indignance humors him.

"Of course I am. I can be anyone you want me to be." It's expression becomes full of malice, and Dean's throat grows tighter and tighter until he's gasping for breath. "I just thought you'd like to see your brother again. I find family reunions to be the most impressionable." he laughs, reaching out and swiping a finger along the trail of blood on Dean's chin. For a moment, the older Winchester actually thought it was right: that using his brother would make things more note-worthy, because all they've been doing is talking. But then, it sticks it's finger in Sam's mouth, moaning at the taste of his blood. Dean sweeps his attention to the creatures feet, not wanting to witness his brother in such a manner. He made a bargain to himself that if the thing admitted he wasn't really his savior, then he could also pretend nothing was going to happen.

Too bad, it did.

Dean gurgles on the sudden overflow of blood inside his lungs. It feels like he's drowning in the emotion on Sam's face when the monster grabs his cheeks and forces him to look up, with no way to make things better and no defense. Pain pierces his heart slowly. Albeit he knows better than to believe he's going to die from lack of air, or that the image of Sam's amusement will fade away. He wants to see the real demon in his place. Because slowly but surely, all memories of Sam are fading away like everything else.. and he doesn't want to remember this.... this thing in his place.

"...s...mm...un!"

He can't move, suspended in the fiery control of the creature's will. His skin burns with the oncoming threat. A half-formed thought of apology lies paralyzed on the tip of his tongue. He wants to take it back. All of it.

Can he get a do over..?