Thank you to DearHart for requesting this Sam POV as I wouldn't have thought to do it and it does make this feel that much more complete. Plus getting requests is really nice! And because DearHart requested this, I am choosing to post here on FF before I do the same over on my LJ and AO3 accounts. I took the week to write this and tweak it and tweak it and tweak it. Can never seem to stop tweaking. By the 5th night, I found myself channeling Chuck – mostly paraphrasing, of course. "Endings are hard. Anyone can poop out a beginning. Endings are impossible." That's how I felt until it dawned on me to let Dean inspire me. So finally I can share one more little chapter with you all. Thank you for also being my inspiration.

The need to pee pulled Sam from a rare deep sleep. He was exhausted after not just trying to save the lives of strangers, but his brother's as well. And after his talk with his brother, before Dean went off to meet that blonde bartender, Sam was emotionally exhausted too. True, they didn't go quite that deep in their discussion. You could never just dive into these things when it came to his guarded sibling. Still, Dean had allowed Sam to at least wade into the murky waters of his troubled psyche, which could prove dangerous if you weren't careful.

So when Dean left, Sam was relieved. He hoped his troubled brother was in a better place than where he started that day. Sam knew that Bartender Girl could help Dean further forget what plagued him, at least for awhile. Sam could rest knowing his brother was being taken care of in some of his favorite ways. So there was no need to wonder where his pleasure-loving brother was or what he was doing. Yeah, Sam was a worrier too.

Tonight, Sam was able to get something to eat and sleep the sleep of the dead if he wanted. And he did just that, taking a relaxing shower before he turned in at the ripe old hour of 11:15 p.m. He knew it would be hours before Dean came back – if he came back at all – and Sam would be in la la land by then.

Time did not cater to Sam's desires for rest, however. The next thing he knew, it was 4:39 a.m. and damn it! He hated it when his rest was disturbed so close to dawn. He wanted to at least pretend like there was still time before Dean would be intentionally stomping around, getting things ready to depart while trying to indirectly wake his slumbering brother. But Sam wasn't paying attention to the time when he had that last bottle of water. It had made its way through his system and was now demanding release.

Sam sighed as he shifted in bed so he could toss his feet on the floor, wanting to hurry up and get back under the covers before he was fully awake. He was aware enough to be careful of the duffle he left on the side of the bed and sat in slight, half-eyed confusion as his feet sought the boundaries in which he could safely walk. They found nothing. Assuming he had left the bag further away than he thought, Sam pushed up off the bed and began his shuffle to the bathroom. Five steps in, he had found his missing boundary.

"Ow! Shit," he uttered to himself as he stubbed his toe, most likely on a heavy weapon inside. Instinctively he tried not to wake…who exactly? Dean was probably not even…oh wait. He was in. Forced to open his eyes a little further, Sam peered into the darkness to make sure the brother-shaped lump in the bed next to his was in fact who it was supposed to be. They were hunters, after all. Can't be too careful about these things.

As Sam tried to focus, his feet felt for a way around the duffle until Sam was satisfied that he was in fact staring at his brother. He could then give some thought to the mysteriously shifting duffle bag. He looked down at the bag and back at where he thought he had left it when he went to bed, the nature of their work always making him think twice about anything that seemed remotely unexpected. You couldn't take anything for granted when it came to the world of the spirits. But as far as he knew, there was no one who would be trying to get his attention by tripping him up in the middle of the night. At least he didn't think so.

Sam knitted his brows at the annoying obstacle, fully stepping over the bag to resume shuffling to the bathroom on the other side of the opposite bed. As he rubbed his eyes to prevent stubbing his toes on anything Dean might have dropped in his own wake to bed, Sam looked over again at his brother as he attempted to sneak past. He figured Dean had probably picked up where he left off drinking with Bartender Girl, so Sam could have blown the horn of Gabriel and not caused a stir in big bro. He snickered at the thought, noticing that Dean was only missing his jacket, so he must have been three sheets to the wind when he came in. Dean was on his stomach, facing the bathroom, and Sam assumed there would be a symphony of snoring by now, making Dean oblivious to Sam's nighttime stumbling.

But he didn't hear a sound.

As Sam shuffled further around the bed, his attention growing more alert and his eyes glued to his brother's back, Sam realized he wasn't hearing anything at all – no snores, no grunts, no silent-but-deadly nose bombs. Stepping into the bathroom door, Sam stood, his head cocked, watching his brother, listening for the familiar sounds of a hangover in the making. The streetlights had snuck in through the closed blinds, casting strips of light onto Dean's steady back. Like the parent of a newborn watching for the slow breaths of their infant, Sam squinted into the darkness waiting for movement. When he saw nothing, he risked waking Dean by turning on the bathroom light to get a better view.

He waited, hand on the switch, counting to himself in the glow of the bathroom light.

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand between their beds and he waited, noticing the rhythm of his own breathing, expecting it to skip a beat in time with Dean's once he finally saw it.

He waited, but Dean was still. Too still.

"Dean?" Sam whispered, bracing for possible backlash because he dared to wake the bear. There was nothing.

He cleared his scratchy throat and tried again, a little louder. "Dean."

Sam's own breaths were becoming quick as he waited for his brother to do anything at all that proved to Sam that he was only sleeping – a soundless, breathless, comatose sleep, yes, but only sleeping. He glanced at the clock again and began to pant a little as he saw it had been a minute already since he last checked the time.

Rushing to the bed, Sam knelt down to look into his brother's face, the color paler and his features more languid than they should be. Gingerly, Sam reached out to lay his hand on Dean's back. He had hoped to feel the life he wasn't seeing, then began to shake his brother when that too failed to happen. "Dean, man, wake up." Sam shook harder and moved closer, slipping his other hand under his brother in a full-on attempt to rouse the sleeping man. There was silence.

"No, no, no, no, no" Sam said, leaping up from the floor to run to Dean's other side where he could better roll the unconscious man over to his back to assess the situation. "Dean! Dean, can you hear me?" Osiris couldn't have won after all, could he? Sam snatched his brother up to take off his twisted shirt. Pushing Dean back down to the center of the bed, Sam ran back to the other side to pull him further over and up so that he was flat on his back, his arms at his sides. Sam reached down to feel for a pulse, his heart racing at the touch of the cool skin.

"Oh no." There was no pulse.

Sam reached over to place two fingers on the carotid artery under Dean's neck to try again. There was no beat.

"Damn it!" he huffed. He wasted no time turning on the room's overhead light so he could get back to his brother's side. He straightened Dean's head, continuously calling his name.

"Dean! Dean, please answer me, man!" Sam tilted the heavy head.

"Dean, come on. Are you in there? I need a sign!" He opened Dean's mouth to see if anything was in his throat. Only last night's alcoholfest greeted him.

"OK man, I'm here, ok? I'm here." Covering rough lips with his own, Sam blew into his lungs, hurrying to get into chest-compression position.

"It's gonna be alright, ok?" He pressed and prayed to every god and angel he knew.

"Please, Dean," Sam whimpered as the heel of his hand made contact with the lifeless chest. "Please."

Another round of CPR.

He breathed and compressed and compressed and breathed until it seemed to be no point. It was as if it was his destiny to repeatedly lose his brother in as many devastating ways as possible. It was as if he was meant to be alone.

Standing up, at a temporary loss for what else to do, Sam pulled his fingers through his hair. All the spells they ever cast. All the conjuring they knew of and the power that Sam himself has had, it all seemed but vestigial knowledge now. None of it was bringing his brother back to him. Eyeing the clock, Sam noticed the time yet again. Two more minutes had passed and while he wasn't sure how long Dean had been in this state – it was just a state right? – Sam knew he didn't have long to bring him back.

Remembering the adrenaline they always carried, Sam located his duffle again. Running to the bag, he fell to his knees before it, in an almost prayer hoping that he had remembered to bring the injectable medication. "Come on," he urged the bag before uncovering the special case where he kept the pre-dosed needle. "Yes!" he exclaimed, rushing back to Dean's side. Administering adrenaline was no cake walk, something you only pulled out in extreme circumstances, but this was as extreme as they came, was it not?

Not wanting to waste any time removing Dean's jeans, Sam inserted the needle directly into the muscle of the immobile thigh, taking care to make sure the injection was complete before slowly drawing back. Giving another round of CPR to help the medicine do its job, Sam pleaded with his brother to fight his way back to him.

100 deaths at the hands of the Trickster. Could this be how it would end?

"Dean, come on. This isn't funny." Sam could feel the hope start to drain and his eyes start to blur.

All that time in hell suffering at the hands of demons who did God only knows what kind of torture that Dean never would fully disclose. And now their time together was done?

"Come back," Sam whispered, resting his head against his brother as he once again took note of the time. Nearly seven minutes. Wasn't there something about that number? It wasn't too late, was it? He felt the fight in him start to give him one last charge.

Even Fate had tried to take them out with some insulting kitchen explosion on some warped timeline they didn't belong in. It didn't work, damn her!

Revved by his internal drive, Sam shook off his growing grief. He stood over his brother, blowing the breath of life once more, determined compressions sank into Dean's chest.

"Come back," he summoned. "Dean, please. Come back to me, man. Wake up! Wake up, damn you!" Sam's anxiety was taking over. He began to shake his brother. "Dean! Dean!" and then he felt it. Dean lurched in his hands. A lifetime of close calls and downright misses washed away by the hunter's restorative breath. Stepping back, Sam grabbed his head, his world shifting back on its axis. His heart slowing back to normal. His brother returning to his side.

Sam blew a breath of relief as his phoenix rose again. His appreciation for his dad-appointed guardian was never clearer than when he was suddenly standing alone. And in those times, he would feel the eternal despair that followed them like a ghost, haunting their every loss and never-ending battle. Sam was grateful, maybe a little selfish. Yeah, sure he knew he could do this alone if he had to, but he didn't want to.