Here we are, at the end. (Although there's an epilogue coming and plenty more instalments to this 'verse) It's a long one, get yourself a cup of tea and settle in.

Sam's cell phone lies spread out across the floor of his bedroom. Like a tiny, broken puzzle of the little metal pieces that went hurtling from the impact. The glass screen is cracked, reflecting the bedroom light at a hundred different angles, like a spider's web dressed in rain drops. There's no fixing this. Dean, a man who fixes things for a living, knows that.

Still, he scoops up what he can and carries it to the kitchen where he lays it on the surface of the kitchen table. The screen is pitch black under the shattered glass, every text and call Dean has made to Sam in the last fifteen minutes never reached its destination.

Sam is out there in the freezing cold and Dean has no way of contacting him.

Dean finds his own cell in his jeans pocket. The screen lights up when he taps it, then his thumb gently glides over the surface. He doesn't think when he selects a name in his contacts and dials. He turns on the speaker and waits.

Just hanging on the edge of the final ring, someone finally picks up.

"Dean?" Cas asks, sounding groggy and fresh from sleep.

"Hi," Dean says, trying to think of what to say. Because he isn't entirely sure what just happened. Everything with Sam blew up so quickly, he's still trying to process it. If Sam were a bomb that just went off, Dean's ears are still ringing.

"What's wrong?" Cas says, sounding more alert than only a second ago.

"I don't know," Dean admits. "Sam just – he freaked out. I don't know what happened. Suddenly, we were arguing, then he just bolted."

"Oh. Okay," Cas says softly. "I don't – "

"Something's wrong with him," Dean blurts. "He wasn't making much sense, then he just ran off. He didn't even put any shoes on."

Cas is quiet and Dean peers out the window where a soft snow is beginning to fall. He watches the flakes flutter by, each one totally different to the next, and gone so quickly once it hits the ground.

Sam, when he was going through his dramatic phase – kid used to read Edgar Allen Poe and drink apple juice out of one of Dad's wine glasses – once said snowflakes, along with the mayfly, are life's smallest tragedies because they live for such a short time. Dean had laughed at him for three days straight.

Real tragedies are just stories the news plays at 7pm each night. Nothing tragic ever happens to regular people, not like Dean.

But it does, and it did. His dad's gone. And now, he's picturing Sam's face stamped on a milk carton. Or worse, under a plastic black sheet.

"Dean," Cas' sharp tone snaps him back into the dimness of his kitchen. "Dean, we need to go look for him, okay?"

"Yeah. I just – "

He – what? Dean doesn't know. It feels like his insides are folding in on themselves, like he could throw up, like he might just stop breathing. Ever since the crash, it was one bad thing after the other. He and Sam never got the chance to recover.

"Dean?" Cas sounds concerned, it's not the first time he's spoken his name. "Breathe, Dean."

Dean hadn't noticed he wasn't. He gulps in a lungful of air, then slowly pushes it back out between his lips, then again, a few more times.

"I think I'm freaking out a bit," he admits.

"Understandable," Cas replies. His voice is soft, like an untouched layer of fresh snow. "Do you have any idea where Sam might be?"

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think. Sam had been mostly quiet these past few days, Dean really doesn't have much of an idea about what the kid gets up to most of the time. Sam likes to shrug, he pushes his food around his plate, and gets into trouble at school, and drifts around the apartment like he's haunting it. He's never interested in anything, except for hanging out with Ruby.

"I think I have an idea," he tells Cas. "I – I'm sorry for calling you like this. I've got a couple people who can help me out – "

"Dean," Cas interrupts. "You really think I'm letting you deal with this by yourself?"

For the first time that day, Dean manages a smile.

Sam, when he wasn't six feet tall, was a spider monkey. A limpet, Dad used to say. He was a clingy little fucker, would wrap his octopus legs around Dean and Dad when he was still young enough not to be embarrassed by sticking too close to his family.

Dean misses him. He misses the way Sam used to be. He misses when his brother actually talked to him. Next time Dean sees him, he's going to wrap him up in a hug so tight the kid won't have any chance of getting away again. And right after, he's going to give the kid a talking to that would rival one of Dad's.

He turns onto one of the nicer streets in town and hears the swell of music right away, fast and beating hard enough he can feel it vibrating in his ears. The Impala's wheels are holding up well on the snow so far, which is now thick enough to crunch under his boots as he hops out of the car and heads for Ruby's house.

Right now, Bobby is circling the town in search of a barefoot, dumbass kid, and Jody and Cas are headed towards Andy Gallagher's house. Andy was Sam's best friend for years, the two of them used to make mud pies in the backyard of their old house, hurtling in for dinner with dirt-caked fingers. If anyone knows Sam, it would be Andy.

But Sam and Andy haven't been SamandAndy since the crash. Sam's latched himself onto Ruby these past few months. Like Dad had said, a limpet.

There must be more than fifty kids here, all dressed up older than they are with low-cut tops and red plastic cups in their hands. Some of them stare, some make a run for it like Dean's about to bust their asses for drinking years before they should. He taps a kid on the shoulder and Gordon Walker turns to face him, eyes wide over a nose that's swollen from the impact of Sam's fist.

Dean ignores the spooked-horse look and asks, "Which one is Ruby?"

Walker just stares, then points towards the kitchen where a pretty girl with long, dark hair is sitting up on the counter and downing a shot of god-knows-what.

She's bleary-eyed and wobbly by the time Dean navigates the crowd towards her, and she blinks at him for a few seconds before saying, "Aren't you Sam's brother?"

"Are you Ruby?" Dean replies.

Ruby nods, nearly tipping herself onto the floor as she does. Dean catches her shoulder and straightens her up.

"Have you seen Sam?" he asks, the clenching feeling returning to his insides. Ruby might have the answers, she might be able to point him in the right direction, maybe even just up the stairs, then he'll have Sam back at home in no time.

"He was here," she says, slow and slurring her words. She blinks, silent for long enough that Dean worries she forgot what the question was. "He came by around… what time's it? I dunno, but he was here. He was, um. Messed up, I guess?."

The clenching inside tightens suddenly and Dean sucks in a breath. "He was hurt?"

"No," Ruby shakes her head, but catches herself on the cabinet before tilting over. "In the head, I mean." She leans close and whispers, "He's crazy."

Dean bites his lip, choosing to ignore that comment. "But he's not here now?"

"No, he left a while ago," she says, waving a hand dismissively. "I dunno where he went."

A sinking sensation replaces the tight pain of panic, and he sighs heavily. Behind him, something smashes, then there's a chorus of cheers. Dean remembers parties like this, he was one of these kids only a few years ago, he would probably have been the one doing the smashing.

Now, he's the one saying, "Make sure you clean up after yourselves. You'll owe your parents at least that much by morning."

He leaves her slumped on the counter, fingers rubbing her temples, then he squeezes back through the crowd and out into the chilly night air. It's still snowing gently and the roof of his car is white under the streetlight.

"So, you and Dean are friends?" Jody Mills asks, sneaking glances at Cas as she tries to focus on the snow-covered road.

"I work at Sam's school, too," Cas answers. He doesn't mention that he was specially assigned as Sam's councillor, it's clear Jody is making assumptions about his relationship with Dean and he really doesn't want her disapproval. Or maybe Cas just feels guilty. It's his fault Sam ran off. If he had just left things be, if he'd honoured his promise to stay away from Dean, he might not be out on the road late at night. Sam might be at home, safe and warm.

Hopefully, Sam's at one of his friends' houses. Maybe this is all a big misunderstanding that causes more aching worry than it ought to.

Deep down, Cas knows that's not the case. He can feel it. Something is seriously wrong.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he finds a message from Dean: Sam was at party earlier. He left, don't know where to.

Cas passes the message onto Jody and watches as she nibbles at her lower lip. She's worried, but she doesn't say anything.

"How long have you known the Winchesters?" Cas asks, to fill the silence.

Jody smiles softly. "Oh, for years. It's a small town, you know? Almost everybody knows everybody. I met John, their dad, through Bobby. The two of them had been good friends for more than a two decades."

Her smile drops as she sucks in a breath. "It was a real tragedy," she says, "for everyone. We all knew John, and some of us knew Mary when she was alive. We try to watch out for the boys, but – "

She cuts off, but Cas knows what she was going to say.

"It's no one's fault," he says. "Sam has suffered more than anyone should have to. Dean, too. Nothing can fix grief."

"I know," Jody replies, and the tone of her voice makes Cas wonder who she lost. He's hesitant to say anything, looking for the right words, but she beats him to it. "We knew. We knew something was wrong but we didn't do anything. We were scared to push him too hard, we didn't want to upset him. If we'd done something, maybe we wouldn't be here."

It seems the same guilt is dripping through everyone. They all tried to hold Sam above water, but while they were all deciding whether to build a raft or shoot off a flare, Sam slipped under.

They pull onto a quiet street. Jody doesn't bother parking, leaves the police truck running to the side of the road. She tells Cas to wait in the car, and jogs carefully towards a little one-story house with softly lit windows. Andy Gallagher answers with a surprised look on his face, a couple more kids gathering behind him. Cas recognises Charlie among them.

They talk for a moment, but the shake of Andy's head says it all. When he shuts the front door as Jody heads back to the car, it feels like Cas' heart has sunk a little lower in his chest, wedged between the bottom of his lungs.

"They haven't seen him," Jody says as she climbs behind the wheel again. She turns to Cas. "Do you have any ideas?"

He's caught a little off guard. Cas has only known Sam for a few weeks. He doesn't know where he might run to, or who he might run to. He thinks of Sam, bruises under his eyes and the same shirt from the day before. Sleepless nights. Cas wonders if Sam ever has a moment free from the crash, from his father.

"Where is John buried?" he asks Jody.

"Local cemetery. Why?"

"And their childhood home, that's close by?"

"Yes, but – "

He finds his phone, the bright screen lighting up Jody's truck in artificial blue. He sends two messages, one to Dean and the other to Bobby Singer.

Jody taps her fingers against the wheel. "Where to?" she asks.

Cas has an idea, but he hopes he's wrong.

It's almost pitch black in the cemetery, only the torch from Dean's cell phone guides his way. It's quiet, each tombstone sits silent under a blanket of white, like neat rows of soldiers standing to attention. His boots crunch and sink in the snow, leaving the deep wells of his footsteps in his wake.

Dean hasn't been here in months, not since he and Sam visited for their Dad's birthday, the first they celebrated without him. They brought two beers, poured one out over the soil for Dad. Dean let Sam have a sip from his before downing it all in only a few gulps.

"Sammy?" Dean calls into the dark. He gets no answer but the rustle of naked trees in the snowy breeze. "Sam?"

He trudges on, swinging the light from left to right, scanning the grounds for any sign of his little brother. He doesn't watch where his feet step and almost trips over a headstone, shins banging against the top of it painfully, he cries out and swings the light downwards.

Mary Campbell Winchester

Mother, Wife, Friend

1965 – 2000

And recently etched beneath:

Jonathon Winchester

Father, Husband, Friend

1965 – 2016

Dean sighs shakily, breath turning to fog and coiling away into the darkness. He drops to his knees, ignoring the twinge of his freshly bruise shins.

"Hey, Dad. Hey, Mom."

Of course, there's no answer. There's never any answer when Dean lies awake at night aching from the gaping hole inside of him. Grief just swallows you up, it's a wound that can't be stitched back together or disinfected. Even if it does heal, it'll leave some nasty scars.

Dean's never believed in God, but that hasn't stopped him praying. There's always been a foolish part of him that likes to think that Dad, wherever he might be, is watching over them. Maybe they could meet in his dreams. Or the clouds could part and he'd get his Lion King moment.

But Dad's gone. He's never coming back. And now Sam's lost.

"I could use some help," Dean says quietly. "I'm holding it together the best I can, but I don't know how much longer – "

The silence is too much, louder than Dad could ever raise his voice when Dean did something stupid.

Dean pats the top of the stone, brushing away the untouched layer of snow like soft powder. He uses the grip to push himself to his feet. He doesn't say goodbye, there's no one around to hear it. Besides, he has a little brother to find.

Cas is lucky he brought his glasses, otherwise he might never have seen him, might have let Jody keep on driving. Even then, it was close. Everything is dressed in white; the road, the trees, the fields, a teenaged boy. He glides the light of the torch over him as they rolled slowly by. At first, he thinks it's just another part of the landscape, a log or a rock or a rise in the ground. Then he notices long fingers sticking out from under the blanket of snow. He yells to stop so loudly that Jody startles, slamming her foot on the breaks, jerking them both forward. Cas hits his arm off the dashboard and it hurts, throbbing at his elbow, but he's too busy yanking on the door handle to pay any notice.

The road is slippery, of course. Cas' feet fly out from under him and he skids off the side of the road and down the bank, thighs and back scraping and stinging on the gravel and the chill of the ice. He can see Sam more clearly now, can make out a nose and a pair of eyes under snow-crusted lashes.

He scrambles onto his feet and dashes for him. He can hear Jody calling out to him from the road, her flashlight swinging their way, followed by her saying, "Oh, God!"

Cas gets his hands on Sam, nearly jerks away because his skin is so cold. Too cold. Not like living flesh.

"No," he mutters. "No, no, no."

His fingers flutter at the boy's neck. He stops breathing, barely moves a muscle, trying to feel. Behind him, Jody is skidding down the bank calling Sam's name.

Soft and faint, barely there under his fingertips, is a pulse. Cas lets out a breath so deep everything turns foggy. His fingers are numb as he reaches around Sam's middle and pulls, most of the snow that settled on him falls away, the rest still clings to his hair and clothes.

Sam is limp, and his head falls back onto Cas' shoulder. Cas dips his head and feels Sam's slow, shallow breaths against his ear. Jody appears, gloved-hands shaking as she holds Sam's cheeks between her palms.

"He's breathing," Cas says. He only now realises how exhausted he is, from his aching head to his unsteady legs as he tries to lift Sam up.

Jody takes half the weight as they carry him up to the truck where they lay him out in the back seat.

She hops behind the wheel and says breathlessly, "Get him out of those wet clothes then wrap him in the blanket under the seat."

She starts up the engine and presses down on the gas so fast that Cas only just manages to close the door before they're speeding down along the road. It's cramped in the backseat as Cas peels the frigid t-shirt from Sam's torso. Sam's fingers are swelling, red and blistered, a couple of them turning pale blue. He's still shivering, that's supposed to be a good sign –

He freezes when he spots the state of Sam's arms, from elbow to wrist there are thin, neat scars. They vary from months old white knots to fresh and seeping red. He notices then that Jody turned on the police truck's alarm, bright lights flash all around them in red and blue.

Cas manages to get the rest of Sam's soaked clothes off, even his boxers, before covering him in the blue blanket he finds under the seat. Then, he can only sit there with Sam's head resting on his lap.

"Sam? Sam, can you hear me?" He gentle taps at his pale cheek.

Sam's eyelids flutter, but they don't open. His lips part as he utters something so quiet Cas has to dip close to hear.

"Mmm… D-d…"

"Sam, can you open your eyes?" Cas tries, but he doesn't receive an answer. He rests his hand on Sam's chest, just to make sure he's still breathing.

He can see the sign for the hospital up head and could cry with the relief.

"You'll be okay, Sam. You're going to be okay."

Dean can't stop shaking, and it's not from running around in the snow all night. The plastic chairs in the waiting room are uncomfortable as hell, digging into his back, making his ass fall asleep. He stares at the clock. It's be an hour since he arrived.

He doesn't look up as Cas takes the empty seat beside him, or when he offers one of the two paper cups of coffee in his hands.

"No thanks."

Cas sighs. "You need to warm up a bit."

Reluctantly, Dean takes the cup, it's hot in his hands, but he doesn't take a sip. He fixes his eyes to the clock, watches the second-hand tick by slowly. It shouldn't be taking this long, should it? What if something went wrong? What if Sam is scared and alone and Dean isn't there because he's here in this fucking waiting room?

He rubs his knuckles against one eye, giving in to the smell of coffee as he takes a sip. He winces at the bitter taste, the usual crappy vending machine coffee he's all too familiar with, but it does the job.

"He needed me and I wasn't there," he says, staring down at the toes of his boots. He's caught off guard when Cas lays a hand on his shoulder, but allows himself to lean into it anyway.

"Don't do that to yourself," Cas says softly. For a moment, it feels like just the two of them huddled together in the corner of the waiting room. Cas' other hand rests over his and it's the warmth he needs. A perfect fit, like it was always meant to be there. He's never felt so right with another person before.

He dips his head and rests it against Cas' cheek, letting out a deep breath. He needs strength he doesn't have to say these next words.

"We can't be together."

The two of them pull away, Cas' deep blue eyes fixed on his. He doesn't look sad or angry, more defeated, like he saw it coming a mile away.

"I have to be there for Sammy," Dean explains. "He needs my full attention right now and… I know it's unfair to ask you to wait. Until Sam is a bit better. Maybe one day he'd be okay with this."

Cas glances away and the warmth of his hand over Dean's disappears. There's a lump forming in his throat, heart pounding in his chest. He's fucked this up beyond repair, he knows it.

"I understand," Cas says eventually, looking up again. "Our relationship is having an effect on Sam. I always knew I was being selfish by pursuing this, but I promise I never wanted to hurt him."

"You weren't selfish, Cas," Dean is quick to say. "Sam's just not – "

Not what? Not well. Not healthy. Not stable.

"Not in a good place right now," he finishes.

"I get it. Really, I do," Cas says. "All I want is for Sam to get better. But, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'd like to be there for you, as a friend. Sam is suffering, yes, but so are you."

Dean manages a smile, opens his mouth to speak, but that's when the doctor comes through the double doors that lead to the emergency room.

Everything feels numb, inside and out. Except for his fingers and toes, those burn like they've been dipped in fire. His eyes feel glued shut, but he can't make himself drift off no matter how hard he tries. He can hear footsteps and voices and a soft beep, beep, beep close by.

He wishes he could tell them to be quiet and let him sleep, but his lips are glued together, too.

A shiver runs through him. It's cold. No, it's freezing. Strangely, his lungs fill with humid air. There's something strapped to his face, he needs to get it off, but when he shifts his hand a burning pain shoots through his fingers. He can't help yelping, voice muffled by whatever's over his mouth.

He peels open one eye. It's too bright, he closes it again.

"Sammy?"

Dean. That's Dean. Sam turns his head in the direction of his voice and tries opening his eyes again. It's bright, but after a moment the two lights overhead merge back into one. He's overwhelmed by the dull blue curtain that's pulled around his bed. And Dean, who's sitting to his left.

Sam wants to ask where they are. More importantly, he wants to ask what happened, but all he manages is a cough which sends another chill through him.

"Don't try to move too much," Dean says. He sounds exhausted, a deep sigh between words. "How're you feeling?"

Sam licks his dry lips. "Cold, sore, tired," he croaks, barely audible under the clear plastic mask over his mouth.

It comes back to him then: running out of the apartment, catching Ruby with Brady, running down The Road and… just stopping. He didn't want to keep going. He couldn't. He looks at Dean, properly this time, and sees how red his eyes are. He looks older than twenty-one, and Sam knows he gave him each of those extra years.

"Sorry," he says, because Dean deserves at least that. His voice cracks and he knows if he says anything more he'll start crying.

Dean shakes his head, leans close and pulls the oxygen mask down to Sam's chin. "Sammy, I should have taken better care of you. I should have never let this – "

"No," Sam cuts him off, and the first tears rolls down his cheek onto the pillow beneath his head. "Dean, please. I – "

That's all he can manage for now, the lump in his throat is big enough to choke him. He turns away, eyes fixing on anything but Dean's face. His fingers and toes are individually bandaged, hands and feet raised and rested on a pile of pillows. The rest of him is buried under about five blankets, he can see the collar of a blue hospital gown peeking out from under, and the edge of his arm shows off dozens of cuts where the blanket has fallen away.

Dean's looking at it, too, but he doesn't seem shocked or angry. He looks sad. Sam is struck with fear, of what Dean might say, but he's too tired. He's barely managing to keep his eyes open all the way, brain feeling like scrambled eggs.

"The doc explained to me," Dean says, then clears his throat. "They say those are self-inflicted."

Sam doesn't know what he's supposed to say. He never wanted this conversation to happen, he was dumb enough to believe it wouldn't. Making himself bleed wasn't supposed to hurt anyone else.

"Jody and Cas found you on the side of the road asleep," Dean says, his voice is dull. "You're hypothermic, got mild frostbite on your fingers and toes. The doc will explain that you, I don't really understand all these words they throw around."

He rubs a hand over his mouth, like he usually does when he's about to say something he doesn't want to. Sam isn't sure if he wants to hear it, either.

"It was an accident, right?" Dean says. "You were tired and your feet hurt too much to keep walking. You didn't just lay down there to – to die. Right, Sam?"

Sam isn't entirely sure what the answer is. Did he want to die? Maybe. But that's not what will comfort Dean right now.

"It was an accident," he says. "I must have passed out."

Dean doesn't look satisfied with that answer. Sam certainly doesn't feel satisfied, not when his brother looks so broken and defeated, hunched over at his bedside like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. There's a distance that's been growing between the two of them for months, but it feels miles wide here in this cramped hospital cubicle.

Last night, Dean managed to make it all the way to Bobby's spare bedroom before crying. He didn't get even a second of sleep, kept up by a constant whirlwind of thoughts. What did I do wrong? Why did Sam do this to himself? To me? Why didn't he talk to me? How do I make it better? What if I'd lost him, too? Oh, God. I almost lost him.

The next morning, he has no tears left, he's dry to the bone and ends up downing a glass of water so fast he throws up right after. Jody hovers around him like the mother hen that she is, Bobby sits at the kitchen table and watches them both over the top of his newspaper.

It's when Dean loses his grip on his coffee cup and it goes hurtling to pieces on the floor that he finally snaps.

"How could he do this?" he says, not looking up at anyone, trying to collect the broken ceramic shards in the palms of his hands. "I'm so mad at him. I-I can't help it. Does that make me a bad person?"

Jody crouches by his side and begins soaking up the spilled coffee with a towel. "You're not a bad person," she says, "and you're certainly not a bad brother."

"I'm not supposed to be angry at him," he says.

Jody places one hand on his shoulder. "You have every right to feel how you feel, okay? I know you're angry, but I know you're even more scared. Because you care so much about him. Just remember that you have to patient with him. He needs you now, and you need him."

Dean drops his head. "I don't know how to do this."

Bobby shifts in his seat and says, "Good thing you're not doing it alone."

Sam didn't sleep, but that isn't anything new. He lay awake all night, shifting on the uncomfortable hospital bed, trying to ignore the sounds of the kid crying in the cubicle beside his.

Visiting hours start in five minutes, which means Dean will be here in five minutes, and Sam will have to explain that the psyche evaluation he had last night probably ticked every box for crazy. Not that the C word is used around here. He lies there, pinned under a mass of blankets, and watches the clock tick closer and closer to 10am.

His breakfast sits uneaten and cold on the bed table. Sludgy oatmeal and syrupy orange slices from a tin, no thanks. He's not hungry, anyway. He needs to get out of here or else he'll go insane – even more insane. He keeps checking the door for men in white scrubs ready to strap him into a straightjacket.

He startles when the door opens, but it's just one of the nurses coming to take away breakfast trays. She gives Sam a disapproving look when she sees his still-full plate and says, "You'll need all your energy if you're going to get better, sweetie."

She doesn't lecture him, moving on to the next bed. Sam's eyes follow her around the room and out the door, that's when he notices Dean hovering, clearly convincing himself to step into the room. He catches Sam looking and strolls in like he only just arrived. He drops a bag of gummy bears and a tiny stuffed pink elephant onto Sam's lap.

"Picked these up in the giftshop," he says, shrugging. Then adds, with little enthusiasm, "I know pink's your favourite, princess."

His eyes flicker to Sam's scarred arms, but he doesn't let his gaze linger for long. He clears his throat and finally takes the empty seat beside the bed.

"How're you doing?" he asks, elbows resting on his knees so he's leaning closer than Sam would like. He wants to shove his arms under the covers to hide them, but that'll just draw more attention, which might bring up a conversation neither of them want to have.

He ponders the questions. Physically, he's not as cold as he was but he still had to sleep under three blankets last night. Mentally… well, let's not go there.

"I'm fine," Sam says. Dean doesn't buy it, of course, but he doesn't call him out for lying. He looks exhausted, actually, worse than the time Dean went partying for three days straight after graduating high school. Sam can't help but ask, "Are you okay?"

"Sure," Dean mutters. His eyes drop to his lap and he shakes his head. "No, you know what? Let's not play dumb anymore, Sam. I feel like shit, and I know you feel worse."

He's looking right at him now, Sam can feel his gaze on him, can see the blur of his face out of the corner of his eyes. Sam stares down at the blanket pulled over his lap. Soft blue, little square dents all along it, smells like bleach. He ignores the beady black eyes of the pink elephant and focuses elsewhere. His fingers are burning, just a spike of pain that makes him squirm. He focuses on it, wiggles his fingers just feel a little more.

"Sam."

No. Not now. Not ever. He isn't ready for this.

"I'm scared, Sam," Dean says.

Sam stiffens his fingers. He can't look at him, he can't make himself do it.

"I don't want to lose you, too," Dean goes on. His voice cracks, but Sam's too scared to look up in case he really is crying. Sam did that. Sam hurt him. "Sammy, why have you been hurting yourself?"

If Sam knew the answer, maybe he never would have done it in the first place. He startles when Dean's hand finds his arm, fingers wrapping around lightly above the elbow, avoiding any of the wounded flesh. He squeezes gently, his hand is warm.

"I don't know," Sam says. The words tumble out against his will, he's shaking all over, not because of how cold he is. His cheeks, on the other hand, are hot as a tear rolls fast and wet down his face. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Dean."

"Next time you say sorry, you're giving me a dollar," Dean jokes, but his heart isn't in it. Sam musters a smile for him, anyway. "Why didn't you come to me?" Dean asks. "I would have listened, you know that, right?"

"I don't know," Sam says again, and he really means it this time. His heart has been so heavy this past year, so achingly heavy. How many times has he wished just to open his mouth and tell Dean everything? How many times has he stopped himself? "I just couldn't. I didn't want to – "

A sob pulses through him, chest tightening, mouth full of thick saliva. A little bit dribbles out and forms a string from his quivering lip. He tries to wipe it away on the blanket, but Dean produces a tissue out of nowhere and cleans him up like he's a goddamn toddler. His hand is still on Sam's arm, rubbing gently up to his shoulder where it sits patiently.

"I didn't want to upset you," Sam finally manages. "I – I'm so sorry. Dad died because of me."

He's crying again, loud and messy, causing enough of a scene that the kid across the room is staring at them both. Dean is staring, too, eyes wide enough to show the whites. He's angry. Of course, he's angry.

"Sam, that's not true," he says.

"It is! We were arguing because of me. That's when the truck went off the road."

"The roads were icy that night, that's all."

"No. If he – if he hadn't picked me up. If I'd taken the bus. Or if I h-hadn't started that argument – "

Dean shifts close enough that they're almost nose-to-nose, both hands on Sam's shoulders, eyes hard. When he speaks, he speaks low and clear, "You are not responsible for Dad dying, got it?"

"But – "

"No. Sam, Dad did not die because of you. It was just an accident."

Dean doesn't understand, he wasn't there when it happened. He seems angry, but none of it is directed at Sam when it should be. He reaches out to push back a string of greasy hair from Sam's forehead as he returns to his seat.

"You been punishing yourself?" he says, voice softening. He drops his head with a sigh. "I talked to the doc and they're keeping you here until tomorrow morning. You'll have to come back for check-ups. And they – they want to refer you for a diagnosis, with a psychiatrist. I think it's a good idea. They're talking about therapy – "

"Wait," Sam cuts him off. "They're not locking me up?"

"Locking you up?"

"They're not sending me to the nut house?"

"I don't think you're supposed to call them that," Dean says, then blinks. "Man, I sound like you… but no. You can come home in the morning."

Sam studies him a moment, he can usually tell when Dean is playing a joke on him, but he looks deadly serious. For months, Sam has been terrified of being taken away and put on a locked ward. And now, they're just letting him go? They saw what he did to himself, didn't they? They don't know the half of it.

"I, uh." Sam pauses, takes a breath. "I've been seeing Dad. For a long time now."

"Seeing him?" Dean looks confused.

Sam nods. "Sometimes, I think I see him in the corner of my eye, or I can smell his aftershave, or hear his voice."

Dean's quiet for a moment. "You know," he says eventually, "I miss him too…"

"No. No, Dean. I mean it. I see him sometimes. I can hear him like he's right next to me."

Dean just stares at him, brow furrowed, lips parted like he wants to say something but he doesn't know what. He settles for, "You told the doctor all this?"

"Yeah."

Dean shrugs. "Then I'm sure they know what they're doing. Look, this therapy thing could really help you."

Sam wants to tear his hair out, but his fingers aren't up to the task as they lie wrapped on the bedsheets. Why is no one listening? He's telling them the truth, finally, and they all just nod and carry on like it's nothing. Maybe Sam's the sane one and everyone else has gone insane.

"But," he says, "I'm crazy."

"Far from it, kiddo," Dean answers, quick as a beat. "You're sick, and you're gonna get better. That's all."

That's all. Things aren't that simple. Nothing this past year has been simple. Sam's been walking around with a storm cloud over his head, ready to burst and cause a heap of destruction. It's getting bigger and darker and angrier. He looks at Dean, who finally looks a little hopeful behind the weariness that drenches him. Sam could cry, but he thinks he's cried himself dry.

"It's the fifteenth," Dean says out of the blue. One year. Dad's been gone for a whole year.

On second thought, Sam might have a few more tears left in him. Dean hops up onto the edge of the bed and Sam buries his face in his chest, soaking Dean's t-shirt.

"We'll go see him, okay?" Dean says, mouth pressed against the top of Sam's head. "Tomorrow, when I bust you out of here. I don't think he'd mind waiting."

Sam can't say anything; his throat feels clogged and his chest is heaving too hard to catch a breath. He just wraps his arm around Dean, the other tucked up against his chest. It hurts. Dad being gone hurts. He doesn't know if it will ever stop hurting.

But, here in Dean's arms, he feels safer than he has in a long time. For the first time in a year, Sam doesn't feel alone.

The first thing Dean does when he picks Sam up from the hospital is wrap him up in so many layers he looks like he's gained twenty pounds. Sam rolls his eyes as Dean carefully slips a second pair of gloves onto his hands, but he's glaring at him as he tucks his hair under the hideous bobble hat Bobby gifted him years ago.

"There's a reason I buried this at the bottom of my closet," Sam says, poking at the pom pom on top of his head.

"And there's a reason you didn't throw it away," Dean counters. He opens the Impala's passenger door and nudges him inside. They pull out of the hospital parking lot with the heater turned up high and the radio blasting Bob Seger. Dean hums along and taps the wheel.

"What's got you so chirpy?" Sam asks. "You finally get laid?"

"One, I'll have you know I could get laid whenever I like," Dean says, affronted. "Two, I'm just happy you're here, bitch."

Sam's shocked quiet for a moment, likely contemplating how deep the meaning of here goes. Here, as in with Dean in the Impala? Or here, as in still living? Dean means both, especially the latter.

"I'm happy to be here, jerk," Sam finally answers, voice soft under Seger's gravelly singing.

The roads are still frozen white so Dean drives at half the speed. Another flurry of snow begins to fall, bright white against the soft grey of the sky. The high street is decorated with the usual Christmas fairy lights, and even though it's too early in the day for them to be lit it feels like a winter wonderland.

Still, after what happened, Dean thinks he's going to be having nightmares about snow for weeks.

Benny's diner isn't so busy this Sunday morning, probably because of the weather, and most people will be in church. He and Sam haven't been here together since last year, and Sam stares at the place with a real sad look on his face.

"You okay?" Dean asks.

Shakily, Sam nods. He's out of the car before Dean can enquire further, trudging through the snow towards the entrance. Inside, Benny is sitting behind the counter doing the crossword. He grins as he looks up and notices them.

"Aren't you two a sight for sore eyes," he says in his deep southern twang. "Sit wherever you like and I'll be right over."

Sam goes straight for their usual booth, the one that's furthest from the door and has the best view of the TV. He looks pale, deep purples under his eyes, his nose is red from the chill, but when Dean slides in across from him, he's smiling.

"Sammy?"

Sam shakes his head as if to clear it, then pulls the ugly green bobbly hat from his head, placing it on the table beside his knife and fork. "I just – I missed you."

Dean returns his smile and says, "Right back at you."

When Benny comes to take their orders, Dean asks for more than either of them should be able to manage. Sam could use a little extra meat on his bones, anyway. They do a pretty good job by the end of it, Dean reckons – well, Dean eats most of it. Sam mostly pushes his food around his plate like he's redecorating - a lot of it is taken home in plastic containers. Dean makes a mental note to fatten Sam up.

On the way out the door, Benny catches them and yanks them both into his big arms. "I'm glad you're okay," he says to Sam, who pales a little. Word travels fast in town, no doubt everyone and their mother knows about what happened to Sam the other night.

The drive to the cemetery takes twice as long as it should. Whether Dean's going slower because of the icy road or because Sam's hands are shaking on his lap, he's not sure. Parked outside the church, they just sit for a good fifteen minutes, quietly collecting themselves. They stare out onto the graveyard, it seems to stretch on forever, covered in fog. Dean can't make out where Mom and Dad might be. Beside them, the church is loud with the voices of singing attendees.

When Sam's as ready as he can be, Dean collects the bottle of whiskey he's been saving in the trunks since yesterday. Jim Beam was Dad's favourite.

Dean doesn't trip over the headstone this time, although his knees still ache from the other night, and the two of them gather on Mom and Dad's left and right, careful not to step on top of them. Sam sits down on the ground with his legs crossed under him, while Dean stays standing and unscrew the bottle.

He pours a good measure into the dirt.

"Careful," Sam says. "Don't get him hammered."

Dean shrugs and takes a sip from the bottle, ignoring Sam as he holds out his hand for a swig. "Wanna go first?"

Sam stares at the carved letters in the headstone, leans over to trace one gloved finger over 'J'. "I don't know where to start," he admits. "I don't even know if they're listening."

He ducks his head and wipes at his face. Dean drops to a crouch.

"Yo, Dad," he says, and Sam smiles a little. "I hope that wherever you and mom are, you're both partying with angels and driving around clouds in some vintage classics."

Sam snorts. "I don't think busted up cars go to heaven, Dean."

"Of course, they do, Sammy." Dean takes another quick sip. "Look, Dad. This past year has sucked balls and we miss you like crazy, but we're not on our own. We've got each other and Bobby and Jody look out for us. Don't worry too much about us, okay?"

"And I'm sorry," Sam quickly adds.

"What did I say about you saying sorry?"

"Let me finish," Sam says, then turns his gaze back to the ground. "Dad, I'm gonna try to be better. I'm gonna try to be who you knew I could be. I don't want to be like this anymore. I love you, too. I don't think I said that enough when you were still here to hear it."

Dean grips the neck or the bottle, tempted to take another drink, but he's supposed to be driving them both back to the apartment. He screws the lid back on and sets it into the snow next the headstone with the withered flowers.

He and Sam just stay there, quietly, only a glance at the other now and then. It doesn't feel right, to be with their parents but not with them. They're six feet beneath their feet, but even then, it's just a piece of them. Sam's across from him, above ground and breathing. A little messed up and bruised, but he's got a pulse and Dean can work with that.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam unexpectedly breaks the silence.

"Yeah?"

"You like Mr Novak, right?"

Dean clears his throat. "He's nice, sure."

Sam shakes his head, pulling his you're an idiot face that he especially reserves for Dean. "I just want you to know I think I'd be okay with it."

"Doesn't matter," Dean says. "I'm not interested in a relationship right now."

"You're a bad liar."

"I mean it. I've got other things to worry about."

Sam's mouth pinches and he shakes his head, the green bobble on his hat wiggles with the movement. He presses his fingers to his lips, then to the headstone. "I love you both," he mutters.

He climbs to his feet and waits for Dean to join him. "I freaked out the other night, but I was paranoid. I thought – I don't know what I thought. I don't want you to give something good up just because of me," he says.

"Dude, can we drop it?" Dean begs. He's been thinking non-stop about Cas, among other things, and talking about him out loud just makes it more painful. Sam means well, but Dean can't risk upsetting him again. The kid might be having an okay day for once, but that doesn't mean things won't go downhill again. At least, this time Dean's here to catch him. So long as Sam lets him.

He hooks his arm over his little brother's shoulders and guides him through the cemetery back towards the car. So long as Sam is here with him, things will be okay.

"Let's go home."

A/N: This chapter took me two months to write and a couple of hours to edit (I get impatient with editing because I just want to post right away, hopefully there aren't any glaring mistakes). And stay tuned for the epilogue! Thank you all so much for following this story even though it's quite different to what I usually write.