THEN

Without warning, the bullet shot backwards—towards Dean—and imbedded itself deep within his chest. His lips parted slightly in disbelief, and a shaky breath escaped from his mouth as he realized what had happened. He slowly moved a hand to his chest and pulled it away—blood.

"Have a nice day, Sir." the woman said mockingly. Dean looked up at her, towards where he knew she was standing behind the desk, but his swimming vision wouldn't focus on her. He stumbled and fell to his knees as his legs gave out beneath him.

Someone screamed, and the bustle of the hospital resumed in an instant, the sounds dull—strangely muted—in his ears. Spots of light danced across his vision as he felt a pair of hands gently take hold of his shoulders and lower him down the rest of the way to the floor. He gazed up at the ceiling, trying to focus on the shapes and shadows above him, but he couldn't concentrate—he couldn't think. The ring of urgent voices faded to silence, replaced by the loud, steady beating of his heart in his chest.

It stopped.

NOW

He stood outside of the hospital, barely standing, glossy eyes fixed straight ahead, staring. Thunder echoed through the air as a cascade of rain pelted down on him, blurring his vision until he could barely see.

He didn't want to see—didn't want to think.

He didn't know what to do.

It couldn't be real, it was all just a mistake. There was no way that this was actually happening.

The keys were in his hands—in his hands—

But he couldn't do it.

He couldn't bring himself to take another step forward. He couldn't.

So he stood there, oblivious to the rain, oblivious to everything.

And stared.

Because he couldn't get into that car.

Not now.

After what seemed like hours, Sam slowly opened his hand,

Felt the jagged edges as they slipped through his fingers,

Heard the soft jingle as they landed at his feet.

"Sorry." He whispered, his voice rugged and dull.

He turned. Walked away.

Away from the hospital, away from the Impala…away from Dean.

Because Dean was dead.

How could that be? Dean had always been there for him, watching him, keeping him safe.

Always.

And the cause of death? A gunshot wound to the chest? Bullshit. There hadn't been a gunshot. He hadn't heard a gunshot. After all these years of hunting, surely he'd at least be able to hear a gunshot in a small room.

No.

The bullet was there, but something else happened in that hospital. Something demonic. And he had missed it—he had failed—and now Dean was dead. It had all happened so fast…

All your fault all your fault all your fault all your fault—

Sam broke into a run, trying to escape the accusations whirring through his head. It was his fault. Dean crying out and falling to his knees—It had been his fault that they had been at the hospital—blood seeping everywhere, a crimson pool spreading outward from—his fault that demons were after them—blank green eyes, gazing right through, doctors sorrowful apologies—his fault—Dean—

His feet slipped on some loose gravel and fell with an anguished cry, sliding a few feet before coming to a halt on his hands and knees. Breathing hard, he laid there for a moment, the little stones cutting into his skin, trickles of blood mingling with the mud under him.

And the rain continued to fall.

He turned his head and looked back at the hospital. It loomed above him under the stormy clouds, menacing, mocking—because he was running away. Dean was dead, and he had lost.

"No." Sam whispered. He quickly pushed himself up to his knees and then stood, glaring up at the hospital, tears and rain rushing down his cheeks. "No…no, NO!" he yelled, his voice gaining strength with every word. "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME" he shrieked angrily, his voice shaking. "WHO ARE YOU?? WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?!" His voice echoed through the parking lot, unheard. No answer.

Sam waited a couple seconds and then took off running towards the hospital, his heart pounding in his chest. He was done running away, done avoiding danger. He was done hiding.

Dean was dead—his brother was dead. There was nothing left for him to lose.

Halfway to the hospital a sharp pain ripped through his head exactly like before. He cried out but kept running, staggering along. Pain struck again, twisting and burning inside of him, but he didn't stop, he didn't fall. Eyes open and streaming from the pain, Sam reached the main door and stumbled inside, expecting to see the doctors, nurses, patients—

No one was there.

His head continued pounding as the silence engulfed him, and he fell to his knees in pain, clinging to the wall for support. He kept his eyes open this time, desperate to see what really happened each time he blacked out, and he watched through squinted eyes the room flickered and decayed in front of him; paint flaked off the walls, shards of glass fell from the window frames, tile floor splintered and cracked in different directions. The lights flickered wildly and died.

As soon as the lights failed, Sam's headache instantly faded to a dull throbbing, but this time he wasn't relieved. He knew better than that, he knew not to hope. He was back in the other world, on the other side—alone again.

Sam reached for where he usually kept his flashlight—it was gone. "Shit," he whispered, realizing that he had probably lost it when he had fallen outside. He spun around and blindly reached his arms out toward the door. When he felt the cool metal he pushed as hard as he could—it didn't budge.

He pushed again, harder, but the door remained tightly shut—he was trapped.

Sam stopped trying to push and leaned heavily against the door, his eyes open and peering into the darkness. The seconds ticked by, and as his eyes adjusted to the blackness around him he saw it.

There was a light.

It was faint, but Sam could see a light down the hall.

Without stopping to think, Sam walked forward down the corridor, heart pounding in his chest. Halfway down the left side of the corridor he found the source—a strip of yellow light peeked out from underneath a door, beckoning him to enter the room. Sam paused to take out his gun, and then reached out for the doorknob. It twisted easily under his touch, and the door creaked open slowly while Sam held his gun ready—

The room was lined with filing cabinets, all squeezed together in neat rows.

Sam let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and lowered his gun a little in relief. He cautiously stepped across the threshold into the small room, looking around. There had to be something there. There had to be some reason that he—

Sam froze as it hit him. "Records." He whispered, staring around him. "We came here for Mom's records." He quickly glanced down at the filing cabinet nearest to him. It was marked A-C. Turning around, Sam read the labels on other cabinets—"F to H…..K to M…..S to U……where is it??" he growled, frustrated. "Where…" his eyes fell on a cabinet, and he froze— "That's it." He whispered, pausing for only a moment before he strode over to it and pulled on the handle.

Locked.

"Damn it!" Sam swore, giving the drawer handle a couple forceful tugs before letting go angrily. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lock-pick—

CREEEAK

Sam's blood ran cold and he froze at the sudden sound, listening.

thud……thud……thud……thud……

Something was walking in the hall. Sam stepped quietly over to the door and softly shut and locked it.

thud……thud……THUD……THUD……

The footsteps were getting louder. Sam spun around and walked back over to the cabinet as quickly as he could, trying to ignore the sound of approaching danger as he concentrated on picking the lock.

THUD……THUD……THUD……THUD……

Sam bit his lip in frustration as he worked at the lock—why wouldn't it open??—

THUD……THUD……THUD……

There was a soft click as it finally unlocked, and Sam quickly pulled open the drawer to reveal a row of neat manila folders. He hurriedly thumbed through them, looking—"Weir…Welden…Welsh…damn it, where—"

THUD……THUD……

Sam froze as he saw what he was looking for, "Winchester, Mary." He breathed. "Mom." He paused for a moment before snatching up the folder and opening it on the ground. A picture of his mother stared up at him, her eyes bright with laughter. He quickly moved the photo to look at what was underneath. The first few pages were charts full of data that he didn't understand.

THUD……THUD……

Sam moved them aside. The second sheet was a birth certificate—Dean's birth certificate. Sam's breath caught in his throat at this sudden reminder of his brother, and he looked away as the memories flooded back to him—

THUD……THUD……

The loud sound of footsteps jolted him back to the present and he hurriedly moved the sheet aside to find another birth certificate, this time with his name on it. Without giving it a second thought, Sam moved it out of the way as well. The next record showed that she had gone to the hospital because of a sprained ankle, the next showed that she had had some blood work done, the next that she had gotten a serious case of the flu.

THUD……

Frustrated, Sam looked deeper into the pile. There was nothing there—nothing was significant at all, nothing was out of the ordinary. He turned over another chart near the bottom of the pile and a small scrap of paper fell onto his lap. Sam picked it up discovered that it was a brief note. It was written in sloppy handwriting, and was so messy that he had trouble reading it,

Nov. 1, 1983—Mary came in for another test today, and this time with positive results. Now two weeks along. Will come in again later this month for a follow-up.

Sam crinkled his brow in confusion. "That was the day before she died." He turned it over, hoping to see something more, but that was it. "Two weeks along?" he repeated, confused.

He looked back to the folder and saw the last piece of paper—her obituary. Something was scribbled in the margin: She never told. Remains confidential.

"What remains confidential?" Sam muttered exasperatedly. "What didn't she tell?"

He sat back against the wall, thinking hard. He began going back through all the records, trying to find something that he had missed. "Come on, come on….there's got to be something here…." Suddenly his birth certificate got dislocated from the stack of papers and slid a foot across the floor.

Sam stared at it absentmindedly, and all of the sudden he realized what had happened. "Oh God…" he gasped, his mouth dropping open in horror. "No…oh no…oh God…"

…positive…two weeks along…never told…confidential…

Sam stood up, in shock, and ran a shaking hand over his face. Bile rose up in his throat, and he swallowed hard to try to force it back down.

Mary had been pregnant when she died.

Sam doubled over, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the tile floor. When nothing more would come but dry heaves, he wiped a hand over his mouth and straightened up, breathing heavily, clinging to the wall for support. He felt tears pouring from his eyes, and he blinked hard to clear his vision as a sob broke from him. This was too much—too much for him to take. Not now, not after Dean had just died. He had lost everyone—everyone he had ever cared about, and now this—

Suddenly, he heard a soft noise. His head snapped up, and he saw that the doorknob was twisting. Someone was trying to open the door. For a moment he panicked, but then he remembered that he had locked it earlier. Whoever was out there realized that too, and began angrily twisting and pulling at the doorknob. Sam backed up against the wall opposite the door, his gun held loosely in his right hand at his side.

As suddenly as it had begun, the sound ceased, and everything was quiet for a moment. To Sam this was worse than hearing the noise, and he listened hard to hear what was happening out in the hallway.

Then, he heard a familiar voice in the hall. A voice he hadn't expected to hear again.

"...Sammy?"

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, and a sob broke through him again. He knew that voice. He would recognize that voice anywhere—but he knew it wasn't real. That person was dead—that person was dead and this world was toying with his mind. "Go away…whoever you are, just go away…" he muttered brokenly.

"Sammy? What's wrong?" the voice continued, and the doorknob twisted frantically again. "Why did you lock the door?"

Sam's sobs intensified, and soon he was sobbing so hard that his sobs didn't even make a sound as he slid down the wall and sank to the floor.

"Why won't you let me in?" the voice demanded. "Let me in, Sam."

Sam shook his head, cradling his head in his hands, trying to block out the voice.

"Open the damn door, Sam!" it continued, angry now, "Why the hell won't you open the damn door? I'm your brother! I know you can hear me!"

Sam kept his eyes screwed shut, biting his lip so hard that the salty metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

"You let me die!" the voice screamed. "You let me die! It's all your fault that I'm dead! It's always your fault, Sam! It's your fault that Mom's dead, your fault that Dad's dead, everything's your damn fault!"

"…no…no…no…no…no…" Sam whimpered, rocking back and forth on the floor, arms clutched tightly across his chest.

"You know what, Sammy? I wish you had never been born! I wish that I had never known you, I wish that I didn't have to protect your pathetic ass every damn day of my life! I hate you! I've always hated you! You're worthless, do you hear me?! Worthless! I hate you, Sam!"

"Stop it!" Sam screamed, unable to take it anymore. "Stop it, please, please stop, please…oh God just stop! Just stop…" he begged, an uncontrollable torrent of tears pouring continually down his face and landing in little splashes on the floor. "Please…" he clutched his arms closer to him and braced himself for what would come next.

Silence—it never came.

Sam waited a few seconds and then took in a deep, gasping breath. "Dean…" he sobbed, the fact that his brother really was dead hitting him full force. "Oh God, Dean, I'm so sorry…"

"Oh look who it is..." someone taunted from inside the room, "Little Sam Winchester."

And that seems like a good place to end this chapter...you'll have to wait until next time to see what's been going on and if Dean's really dead--don't hate me! PLEASE REVIEW!